


Love Makes Too Much Noise

by orphan_account



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: M/M, RMS Titanic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-15
Updated: 2016-02-25
Packaged: 2018-05-01 16:37:05
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death
Chapters: 10
Words: 53,268
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5213030
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Harry Styles has everything. He wants for nothing, be it company or champagne or expensive cigarettes. But he flounders, drowning in loneliness and the dread that looms over him he can't shake off. </p><p>It's April 1912 and Harry Styles is a passenger on the Ship of Dreams. </p><p>So Harry Styles has everything, except someone to love. But maybe one hopeless night in the dark, hanging over the back of the RMS Titanic can change all of that. </p><p>Because Louis Tomlinson has nothing but an open heart and a dream of a better tomorrow. </p><p>And maybe that's all Harry needs to feel alive.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. You May be Good Looking but You're Not a Piece of Art

**Author's Note:**

> Here it is, my long-awaited (by me, at least) take on the (in)famous Titanic AU! I hope you enjoy!

Harry Styles cranes his neck to get a good look at the RMS Titanic and in contempt he groans. It is a massive ship, as the name suggests, and it is going to be Harry’s cage for the next seven days. He is going to be completely, utterly trapped, and he is going to lose his mind. For the hundredth time he hesitates and for the hundredth time his father chastises him as he bumps into Harry trying to step out of their car and onto the dock where the great ship awaits. 

“She’s amazing, isn’t she?” his father asks, and he claps Harry on the back with what he is sure is supposed to be a comforting hand but instead makes him stumble and nearly fall. 

“She is,” Harry agrees, straightening out the wrinkles in his overcoat as his father’s servants bustle about, carrying their bags. He watches them climb the wooden ramp that leads them to the open door of the ship and disappear inside. They have orders of where exactly to place each and every bag and Harry passes them the last of his luggage as he stares open mouthed at the boat before him.

“Shut your mouth,” his father says, tapping Harry on the underside of his chin with sharp fingers. “You look like a fool when you gape like that.” And Harry rolls his eyes but shuts his mouth and he shields his eyes from the glaring morning sun to look up as high as he can see. No matter how far towards the sky he tilts his face he simply cannot get all of the massive ship into his line of vision. It rises up from the sea and towards the cloudless sky, the masts punching black holes into the sun. The ship looks like it stretches a mile from side to side, so vast Harry cannot help but wonder how long it would take him to run from end to end. 

(He has not even stepped foot on the Titanic yet and already he is ready to run.)

“What are you _staring_ at, Harry?” his father asks, holding one arm out to usher Harry towards the ship and towards his temporary prison. 

“She’s beautiful,” Harry tells him, momentarily struck dumb by the sheer size of the vessel he is about to step foot on. “That’s all.”

He pretends his father’s concerned stare is due to his worry over Harry’s mental health rather than over his worry of what his colleagues and his peers were going to think of his humorless, downtrodden son. Harry has not been himself lately, after all, and surely his father of all people must have noticed. But of course not once did he mention a thing, putting on a show as always that everything is fine. His father does not have as much as he used to but he has a name to live up to, an image to uphold. He has family money to protect and Harry almost feels sorry for him and the way he struggles endlessly to keep his head above water. And Harry is no help at all and his father never fails to remind him of the fact. 

“Chin _up_ , Harry!” his father barks, and with one misstep and a near stumble Harry is aboard the Titanic and far too far from shore. As Harry’s father scolds him for tripping he scowls, turning back to glance at him and say,

“I can’t keep from tripping if you make me turn my chin to the sky!” 

(If Harry and his father did not have an audience in the sharply dressed man waiting patiently for their tickets he is sure his father would have hit him for the comment.)

“Harry, you exhaust me,” his father says instead, and Harry follows his father’s hand with his eyes as he passes two crisp white tickets into the man’s waiting hand.

“Welcome to the RMS Titanic,” the man says, and with a tip of his cap he motions Harry and Desmond Styles into the Ship of Dreams. Harry’s father only grows more impatient with his son as Harry gapes at the ship and the splendor Desmond passes by as if he does not see it at all. Harry wants to shake his father and spin him around in circles to see the dazzling beauty all around them; this ship is not called the Ship of Dreams for nothing. To say it is splendid is to do it disservice; the entryway into the first class quarters alone is enough to make Harry dizzy in its grandeur. Again he trips, over his father’s gleaming leather shoes this time, and the moment Desmond and his gangly son are out of sight from everyone but the help Harry gets a whack on his ear that makes his head spin even more than the glistening crystal chandeliers do. 

“Ow!” Harry cries out, earning a sympathetic grimace from the servant lugging two of Desmond’s heavy suitcases in his arms. He rubs at his stinging ear with careful fingers and scowls at his father but he may as well have vanished into the flowery wallpaper for all the notice he is given. His father is already calling out for one of his men to scuff the marks Harry’s brand new shoes had left on Desmond’s as they walk almost side by side towards their suite. A single crew member of the ship, dressed in crisp white and black, leads them and their men down the endless white halls. The farther they walk from the vast entryway the quieter it gets and the sharper the fear in Harry’s stomach becomes. He is scared out of his mind to be here, trapped with his father and their simpering servants for far too many days. He is scared to be stuck in the never-ending cycle of dinner parties and sipping champagne and listening to his father talk endlessly of the business and bullshit that is his life. And he is scared of the same thing his father is, albeit for a million different reasons. 

More than anything, Desmond Styles is terrified (although he would never admit it aloud) of the nosedive his bank account is in the midst of even as he laughs and jokes about the economy he is so excited to be a part of in America. Desmond Styles is terrified of hemorrhaging money and he is even more terrified of becoming a joke in the eyes of his peers, his _friends_. He is scared of losing his status and he is scared of giving up the life he had become so accustomed to. And Harry is scared, too, but not of losing money and useless trinkets and things that come in boxes and bags lugged by stony faced servants. No, Harry is scared of what his father is willing to do to keep his life and his status just as it is. 

Because Harry knows he has a few ideas.

The two of them had fought endlessly about it in the long weeks leading up to them boarding the Titanic, New York City bound. 

“What about Mia Jones?” his father had asked, poring over his worn leather date book in search of someone, anyone, who could whisk Harry away from him and fall in love with and marry Harry, giving him and his father financial security for the rest of their lives. 

“For the goddamn thousandth time, Father, I am not the least bit interested in marrying some girl for her _money_ ,” Harry had replied, spitting the word like a curse. (And it was, a curse that hung over him his entire life.) And his father had smacked him on the ear both for swearing at him and for denying him his ticket back into the world he was scared to death to lose. No matter how many times Harry declined to meet with a girl and her family and no matter how many times he begged his father not to put the pressure of upholding an empire on his shoulders his father never relented. 

And here they are and Desmond still suggests name after name, so many girls that Harry could not have remembered a single one if his life depended on it. Even as the two of them meander down the hall after and flanked by their servants and staff of the ship, Desmond thundering and Harry on his tiptoes, Desmond does not falter for a moment. He tosses names over his shoulder and periodically Harry pretends to nod as he tries to gather the strength to feign interest. His father’s scowl deepens with every glance he tosses Harry’s way and by the time the ship’s staff pull the golden door to their suite open he looks downright murderous.

“Here you are,” a man dressed in the already familiar black and white of the staff says with a quick bow, his white gloved hand on his stomach. 

“Thank you,” Desmond replies down his nose to the man, and he makes such a massive show of pressing a dime into his hand that Harry roll his eyes and bites down the urge to gag. Desmond Styles is a breed of his own, a man so far into his own ego (and his own ass, in Harry’s humble opinion) that he nearly suffocates himself. Harry takes the rare chance he gets to wander away from his father’s gaze as he is preoccupied with ordering the crew around to explore the suite, the rooms massive and ornately decorated. The walls are dark red and white, roses crawling up the wallpaper, and Harry lets his fingers trail along the walls as he dodges servants and crew members to duck away from his father. He can feel it the moment he is out from under his father’s gaze; the weight lifts from his shoulders as he leaves the main living area of their suite and wanders into the parlor. Away from his father’s eyes he relaxes, his heart slowing down before he has even realized his father made it race. 

“Sorry,” he says as he nearly collides headfirst with a maid, her long brown hair tied up in a neatly twisted plait. 

“No, I’m sorry, sir,” she says without looking at him, and just like that he is left alone in the parlor with no company but his own. And Harry Styles is not great company. He watches the maid sashay away from him down the hall and he sighs, long and loud, and he would have screamed if it did not mean everyone aboard hearing him howl like his heart is breaking.

(Maybe it is.)

Harry shakes his head, lost in his own thoughts, and the parlor is nothing short of mesmerizing in its pristine brand new shininess, not one thing in the room looking the least bit like it has ever touched human hands before. There is not a fingerprint to be seen on the blown glass of the trinkets placed carefully on end table after end table. There is no sign of anything human at all in this place, the ship cold and crisp and clean and not much else. As Harry leaves traces of himself all over the room, dropping his fingers down onto the light fixtures on the walls, he hums a song to himself he has not heard in years and tries to forget it at the same time. It is a simple tune, one his mother had sang to him as a baby, but his mother is long gone and with her the comfort and the ease of living in this life. His father had never recovered from the loss of her and Harry doubts he ever will, her death haunting him and Harry for as long as they will live.

Harry has the feeling his father misses her for her family money just as much as Harry misses her for her kind face and kinder words. 

She was nothing like his father and even less like the rest of the people gabbing in first class on the ship; she was warm where they are cold and she was happy where they are happy to be miserable, buried in piles of jewels and money. She would have cried, Harry thought, maybe even wept, at the sight of what her family had become. Anne Styles never asked much of her family but she used to always ask of them that they smiled. Thinking back as far away in the past that he can, Harry cannot remember the last time his father smiled. 

(Maybe the very last time had been with his wife at his side; it is hard for Harry to remember the truth now with so many years between his mother’s death and the thought of her today.)

And maybe his darkness had rubbed off on Harry, just a little. He used to smile, he knew he did, but it is getting harder and harder to remember every goddamn day, just like his mother’s face, what it feels like to smile and mean it. And maybe he is melodramatic, like his father always tells him, or maybe he is a menace, like his tutors used to tell Desmond, but at one time he had been somebody’s light. His mother used to call him that; her light. He had liked that more than anything, the thought of lighting up a life simply by breathing by their side, and it has been so long Harry thinks he may have imagined the whole thing. Maybe he had invented his mother, the woman who would have rather died than seen Desmond lay a hand on Harry, her only son. 

It is hard to remember.

Harry’s fingertips dance along priceless oil paintings his father had dragged along for the trip and along the rose colored wallpaper on the walls. He wanders the four corners of the parlor and tries his best to shake from his bones the feeling of overwhelming loneliness. Harry is never alone and his father would tell him it is not in his right at all to feel lonesome. He is always flanked by somebody who could be paid to stand at his side, from a servant to a goddamn bodyguard if he wants one, but each and every person his father hired is stony and silent at best and angry and bitter at worst, tired and useless and even more boring than listening to his father complain about the stock market. Harry would rather leap from the back of the ship into the sea than spend any moment more of his life playing cards or talking shit with some burly bodyguard or some silly, breathless maid who stares at him and twirls their hair around their fingers. 

As Harry catches sight of himself in a mirror hanging above the velvet chaise lounge he breathes a long and painful sigh and looks away from his reflection as quickly as he can. He looks the same as always, after all, the same tired looking young man with bags under his green eyes and his face far too pale. His father always pinches his cheeks when he is too unprepared to shake him off, telling him over and over he would be so much better looking if only he had some color in his face and a goddamn sparkle in his eye. 

Harry wants to gag every time. 

His father loves to preen him like a pet, slicking back his errant chestnut curls and tucking them behind his ears, telling him again and again things like, 

“You need to get your hair cut immediately, Harry, you look ridiculous with so much hair!”

And Harry always rolls his eyes and sticks out his tongue the moment his father looks away, ignoring his complaints just as fast as he can spit them out. He wants to find Harry a nice girl to marry, someone who can save him from a life of selling his things to afford his home in America, and he is never going to find a girl who will accept him for everything he is, not ever. Harry, his father tells him, is handsome enough to make any girl swoon if only he took better care of himself. Harry is, according to his father, perfect in every way if only he changed his hair and his laugh and his yawning at the dinner table and the way he never picks up the right fork at brunch. If he changed everything about himself he would be perfect, Desmond hypothesized, and there is nothing Harry can do but smile and nod and wait for his father to get bored of chastising him for the moment as he always does. 

Harry never cared much for self-importance, anyway. It is just as well his father reminds him every moment that he may as well not be part of this life; he does not belong in it and he is never going to amount to much going the way he is headed. Where that is, Harry has no idea, but his father seems pretty set on reminding him he is going the wrong way just the same. He figures to head the right way he would have to dive headfirst into finding a wife, forgoing the fact that he is barely seventeen years old. His mother was married at sixteen, Desmond reminds Harry, as if by turning seventeen he is gravely disappointing his mother. Harry tries his best to ignore every jab and every comment his father tosses his way but just like the roar of the engine of the ship coming from far beneath Harry’s shoes it is far too loud and far too huge to ignore. 

And just like that the ship leaves the dock and the Ship of Dreams is on the sea. Harry would not have believed they move at all if he does not know it to be true; the ship moves so smoothly through the cerulean sea that they may as well have been standing on solid ground. 

“Harry?” Desmond calls to him, and Harry’s head shoots up at the sound of his name. All at once the tickling urge at the back of his head to flee races to the front and he stands, frozen in the parlor, as his father’s heavy footsteps near him. Harry has to run. “Harry, there is someone here I would like you to meet,” Desmond says, and Harry knows without looking he has already found a girl he wants to introduce Harry to without being on the ship for ten whole minutes. Harry has to run. He looks towards the sound of his father’s voice and then away, searching the parlor as fast as he can for an exit, a way out. He finds it behind the chaise lounge, a pristine wooden door painted white, and he dashes to it and tugs at the ornate golden doorknob as his father draws closer.

“Harry, where are you?” his father asks, and the impatience in his deep voice startles Harry into running for his life. He rips open the door and he does not look to where it leads; instead he races over the threshold and closes the door behind him as quietly as he can, his back to whatever lies beyond the door. The door sports a lock and Harry breathes a sigh of relief as he slams the lock into place, a barrier between him and his father, and he backs away from the door as he hears his father asking hopeless servants where in the world his stupid, asinine son has gone to now. 

Harry has to resist the urge to kick savagely at the door in the direction of his father’s voice as he backs away from the locked door step by step. 

“I will look for him,” Desmond’s right hand man assures him, Harry’s heart pounding in his chest with each careless step backwards he takes. With Desmond’s most trusted and most severe servant after him Harry will not have much time to himself; the man seems to be able to find a needle in a haystack without even dipping one finger into the pile of straw. But he has enough time to run. And without looking back he does just that, whirling from the door and dashing as fast as he can down the barren white hallway he finds himself alone inside. Harry has no idea where he is going and he does not care one bit; the only thing coursing through his overstuffed head is _away, away, away_. He does not belong in that stupid, stuffy parlor with his father and a girl he will never, ever care about. He does not belong on this ship, drowning in his own anxieties as the ship sails out to sea. 

He does not belong in his own skin.

Harry reaches a dead end and instead of stopping he turns around, darting through a doorway off to the side of the hall, and if he gets lost so be it. He can handle being lost. He can handle being alone. What he cannot handle is the loneliness that threatens to crush him like a tidal wave, like the rolling of the sea. It is going to kill him, the thought of spending all his days with nothing in his head but fear, and he dashes down the endless halls for all he is worth. He can hear his breath ripping from him, the roar of the steam engine far below him, and nothing else at all. There is not a soul in this hall and there is not a soul to tell Harry what to do, what to think, how to act, how to feel. There is no one here to smack him around and tell him to act like a gentleman and there is no one here to make him feel pitifully small.

Maybe Harry is meant to be alone.

He nears a set of pristine white stairs, never marred by dirty shoes, and he races down them to second class and to the cacophony of people searching endlessly for their rooms and for their friends. Voices shoot towards him in every direction and he dodges children running at his feet to make his way down the hall. Down here no one is trying their best to impress everyone else around them. Down here the children are not ordered to stand stoic at their mothers’ sides, their fathers talking bullshit and blowing smoke in their tiny faces. Down here the kids are having fun, racing each other and playing games as their parents try to rein them in. And in the chaos Harry finally begins to relax. 

“Sorry,” he says as a tiny little girl runs face first into his leg, her pretty little mouth falling open in surprise as she cranes her neck as much as she can to take him in. 

“Hi,” the tiny girl says, but before Harry can muster up a _hello_ back at her, her mother calls her back and the girl goes running. Harry watches her go and he pauses for a moment to watch the smartly dressed mother scoop the tiny girl into her arms. The people down here are not looking to impress anyone. But their complete ease with one another sure as hell impresses Harry, the thought of not caring what other people think of him so alien that he cannot fathom how it would feel to be so carefree. 

And maybe being carefree is something Harry craves, but it is nothing he is going to find here. If he stands still his father’s men will catch up with him and he forces himself to keep walking. He has to find his way out of here, climbing to the surface and breathing in the chilly air of late afternoon, and he winds his way through second class and tries his best to blend in. It is hopeless; his father never fails to choose his clothes for him when he is going to be anywhere near the sight of other people. Harry feels stifled in his snappy suit, strangled by the buttons done up almost to his chin. He does not fit in here at all and he is reminded of it every time a face turns curiously to follow him down the hall. 

(Not one person knows who he is; thank God. Harry is not among the most rich and famous on the ship and he is grateful for his momentary anonymity, no matter how brief.)

But still the people in second class look at him as if they all want to ask him the same thing: “Are you lost?” He feels lost, he does, but as he reaches the end of the hall and begins to wind his way back up another set of pristine metal steps he feels it echoing a thousand times more. Up in first class he catches the eye of everyone he passes by, familiar and not so familiar faces curtly nodding at him because no one up here waves or smiles or offers a happy, “Hello!” Everyone up here wants to be quiet, to be stony, to be calm. And Harry is done with it. He ignores a bright eyed girl who offers him the tiniest of smiles as she stands by her mother and he brushes past the well-dressed pair as quickly as he can. 

(Everyone wants a goddamn piece of him, don’t they?)

Harry wants to scream. He wants to be heard. But nobody is listening. 

He bursts through a door leading to the upper deck and there he is, out in the open air where nobody can touch him and nobody can reel him in. It is cold, April on the sea just as icy as winter, but the sun shining brilliantly down on the dock warms Harry to the bone as he strides across it. He has no destination in mind but somewhere as far away as he can get. If there is any noise up here he does not hear it at all, the only sound he hears that of his footsteps pounding the dock and his own constricted breathing. With one hand he wrestles open the top few buttons of his shirt, gasping for air he felt has not touched his lungs in years. It is hard to breathe in there, impossible, but up here he is all right. Up here he is fine. 

Not one person looks up at him as he takes long strides towards the back of the ship. He wants to reach the very back, lean over the edge of the ship and look down at the sea impossibly far below him. He wants to watch the waves and the wake of the ship breaking the rolling sea. He has the feeling the sight of the Atlantic below him is a step in the right direction in easing the growing panic from his heart. 

He bumps into another faceless person, apologizing gruffly yet again, but this time the person does something more than offer him an apology of their own in reply. 

“Oi!” the voice shouts, taking hold of Harry by the arm and yanking him, stumbling, backwards on the dock. “Watch where you’re going, will ya?” The voice speaks with a light Irish lilt, bright and a million times lighter than the dark voices like velvet inside the first class deck. Harry fixes the sleeves of his suit, pulling away from the voice’s grasp, and when he looks up he comes face to face with a pair of grey-blue eyes. 

“I’m sorry,” Harry says again, instinct taking over as his desire to seem composed overcomes the panic welling up hot behind his eyes. 

“Where are you rushing to?” the voice asks, looking towards the back of the ship as if he can see what Harry was racing towards. 

“I…” Harry has no idea what he is going to say; he has no real excuse for his aborted decision to gaze at the sea. “Nothing,” he replies. But the voice laughs, grinning so wide he looks mad, and as the sun plays through his wild blond hair he claps a rough hand on Harry’s back that makes him stumble once again. 

“D’ya want to look at the propellers, mate? Is that where you were heading?” the voice asks. “Trust me, they’re bloody amazing.” And Harry tries with all his might (fruitlessly, of course) to keep from blushing, the stranger before him guessing with no effort at all what he had been on his way to do. But the voice is grinning and Harry has to say something and he shrugs and goes with,

“Yeah, I do.”

“Great!” The voice tugs at Harry’s arm and just like that he is off again, towards the back of the ship and towards the spectacular view below. “I’m Niall,” the voice says over his shoulder as Harry lets the stranger lead him along by the crook of his elbow. “Niall Horan.” 

(Harry was born to be a follower, it seems, the hardest habit he is going to have to shake.)

“It’s a pleasure to meet you,” Harry says, and Niall shoots him a look that makes him wish he could shrink away the way he had come. He has to shake the cadence of his voice, simpering and pandering to the old men he is used to fawning over at his father’s side. It is harder than Harry could have imagined; he is not used to speaking to people his own age. The voice, Niall, looks to be Harry’s age if maybe a touch older. And Harry lets him lead the way and he forgets until Niall tosses him another questioning look that he is yet to introduce himself.

He truly is an idiot.

Blushing, he struggles to find his voice, and when it comes to him it comes out low and shaky. “Harry Styles,” he says. And Niall laughs again, still holding tight to Harry’s sleeve, and he tosses Harry’s way a quick, 

“Well, it’s a pleasure to meet ya, Harry Styles.” He mocks Harry’s accent, giving a terrible rendition of the posh London accent Harry could not have been happier to be far away from up here on the top deck. But Harry is shocked to find his lips quirking up into a smile; Niall teases him but it is not unkind. And just like that there they are, as far back as they can get without being in the Atlantic. Harry closes his hands over the cold white metal of the bars separating him from a death drowning in the sea and Niall follows suit, leaning low over the bars to look down below. 

“It’s amazing, isn’t it?” Niall asks, and Harry leans as far as he can with his black shoes scuffing the white paint of the bars he clutches in both hands. 

“It is,” Harry agrees. And it is; the propellers looking impossibly small as they churn through the sea, foaming up the salty water and splashing it up against the ship in waves. They had looked so much bigger, Harry thinks, when he had stood looking up at them from the dock back home. Here in the sea they look tiny, reminding Harry painfully of just how small they are on this ship, on this sea, in this life. It makes his stomach hurt just a little, the reminder, and Niall lets go of the metal bars to hop up onto them, his dirty shoes slipping on the slick metal.

“Woah!” Harry cries, stepping back as if he is going to catch Niall in case he falls, but Niall waves him away and climbs up onto the second rung. His knees hit the top rung and he stands there, balancing precariously in the wind, and Harry hovers behind him with his hands out, trying to decide whether he should laugh or call for help. 

“What are you doing?” Harry shouts over the roar of the rolling sea. Niall turns his steely blue eyes to Harry and he beams so wide Harry can see nearly all of his teeth.

“Get up here!” Niall replies. “It’s amazing, really it is! I wouldn’t lie to ya!” He holds one hand out, motioning for Harry to clamber up beside him, but Harry takes another fumbling step backwards and shakes his head. This man is crazy, totally wild, and Harry tries to be polite as he begins to back away. 

(What was he thinking, anyway, coming up here? Did he really think he was going to find whatever it is he is looking for? It is hopeless; he is helpless.)

“No way!” Harry replies with his hands before him, palms out in surrender.

“What are ya?” Niall crows, throwing his arms out wide. “Scared?” 

“I’d rather not fall into the ocean,” Harry says instead of admitting the truth; he is terrified. He realizes all at once he is nothing like Niall. He is nothing like anyone up here. Niall leans forward so far that Harry slaps his hands over his eyes, Niall’s mop of blond hair blowing back in the chilly breeze winding along the upper deck. Harry peeks through his fingers to find Niall tossing his head back to laugh at him, taunting him with a braying guffaw. 

“It’s easy!” Niall crows. “You can do it, come on!” He is crazy. He is absolutely wild, like no one Harry’s father would have been caught dead associating with, and the thought that crosses Harry’s mind is the thought that makes his choice for him. 

“Make sure I don’t fall,” Harry orders, so used to tossing orders away like nothing, and Niall laughs again and nods with a smiling twisting up his face. 

“I wouldn’t ever let ya fall,” Niall swears. He crosses himself with the hand he is not using to clutch at the metal bars at the back of the ship, feigning solemnity far better than Harry ever could. “Cross me heart and hope to die.” 

“All right,” Harry says, and he can be crazy and wild anytime he wants to. He proves it by taking hold again of the white metal bars at Niall’s side, trusting a perfect stranger to keep him from pitching over the back of the ship and into the unforgiving sea. He steps one foot and then the other up onto the bottom bar and he pulls himself up to stand beside Niall, who whoops with glee as Harry joins him. Wavering, Harry holds to the top bar with all his might, and Niall laughs and cheers at his side.

“Let go!” Niall says. “I won’t let the old sea get ya!” Harry chances a glance at him and instantly regrets it, his focus leaving the sea for long enough to remind him just how close it is to him. How easy it would be to fall. It seems to go down forever, the long fall that would be the end of him, and Harry refuses Niall’s laughing orders to let go of the bars and hold his arms out like he does, letting the wind blow him where it may. 

“I can’t,” Harry tells him. He has to speak up over the sound of the wind and of the propellers churning through the unforgiving sea, the wind taking his words from his lips before he can get them out.

“Don’t say you can’t!” Niall cries. He beams so wide Harry thinks he could split his happy face in too. While he leans forward he dirties the already ragged knees of his pants and Harry tries to focus on that, on anything but the Atlantic Ocean that threatens with a heave against the ship to swallow him whole. “Don’t say you can’t,” Niall repeats, “this is the Ship of Dreams! There’s no such thing as _can’t_ up here!”

And maybe he is right. 

Without another word, without giving himself a chance to think twice, Harry lets go. 

And maybe Niall is right. The wind whips Harry’s hair over his face and he uses both hands to shove it back, looking out over the sea. He gets pushed and pulled, yanked by the wind, and it is like nothing Harry has ever felt before. It is far from the yanking of his father’s hand on his sleeve and it is nothing like the dragging he felt as he stepped from land to sea. It is something else. Something a hell of a lot prettier. 

And Niall is definitely right. This is the Ship of Dreams. And there is no such thing as _can’t_ up here. No such thing as _impossible_. And for the first time in years, in a lifetime, Harry feels the irresistible pull of a grin. A laugh. It rips from him, a sound like a hyena, and if Harry’s sorry excuse for a laugh sounds ridiculous to Niall he does not let on.

“That’s the spirit!” Niall crows, and Harry tips his head back to the sky. “That’s the sprit!” For a moment Harry and Niall laugh together; they laugh at the sea and at each other’s braying laughter and at the impossible joy of finding a kindred spirit at the back of a boat, of all places. 

But as far as safe havens go, the Atlantic Ocean might not be a bad place to start.


	2. I Am a Butterfly; You Wouldn't Let Me Die

Harry sits at his father’s side and wishes with every bone in his body to be anywhere else. It is not just because his father keeps blowing smoke in his face and it’s not just because with every drink Desmond gets louder and bolder with his jabs in Harry’s direction. It’s a million different things, starting and ending with the lack of air and the bleak shininess of everything in the dining hall. It’s the people talking about nothing and it’s the smoke hanging over the table like a cloud. 

Harry feels if he sits much longer he might end up screaming. He might hit someone, smash a few glasses, do _something_ to make anyone in this room feel a damn thing. There are no real emotions down here. There aren’t any real smiles, real laughs. There is just hollow, guffawing laughter passed from tight mouth to tight mouth. Harry sits with his hands clasped in his lap, head bowed, and he ignores his father’s attempts to get him to look up with an elbow to the ribs. His father is trying to sell him, that’s all, and Harry wants no part in it. 

He opens his mouth (to excuse himself or to shriek) more than once but every time he ends up closing it. 

“Isn’t that right, Harry?” Desmond asks, and Harry snaps his head up to see every face at the table turned towards his. 

“I’m sorry,” Harry says. The syrupy sweet fakeness of his voice startles even him as he speaks. “I missed what you said.” Desmond shoots him a look that tells an entirely different story than his calm, collected words. 

“I was just telling our friends about your search for a wife,” Desmond says, and for a brief moment Harry’s world grinds to a halt. The Titanic glides through the sea and the candles on the table flicker and wave, but Harry stops and so does his breath. 

“My…what?” Harry asks. His response elicits more lifeless chuckles across the table, the man sitting across from Harry giving him a look of pure bemusement. Harry is a joke to these people and nothing more. He’s funny, a show, Desmond Styles’ only son. His only hope to carry on the Styles name, his only hope for redemption in the eyes of his peers. And Harry is always going to let him down. 

“I am sure there are thousands of women on this ship who would give a leg to arrive in America on the arm of Harry Styles,” one man says, and Harry draws in a painful breath. Desmond laughs, a soulless sort of laugh, one that doesn’t reach his eyes. They never do. Not anymore. 

“Don’t you have anything to say for yourself?” Desmond asks Harry. “You were just paid a compliment, Harry.” Then, quieter, “Chin up, for the thousandth time.” Harry looks up into the face of the old man who spoke, the man Harry could not name if he tried. 

“Thank you,” Harry says. He sounds empty. He sounds dead. “You flatter me, truly.” And before he can be called empty, before he can give the men another look at his empty head and empty heart, Harry stands. Before he can give them a look into his face, vacant and soulless and dead, dead, dead, Harry gives a short little bow and says, “If you will excuse me. I need a bit of fresh air.” And just like that he’s gone. He hears his father call his name and he hears murmurs (always murmurs, people too afraid to say what they mean out loud) and he ignores them all. In three long strides he is out of the dining hall and into the stark white corridors of first class. 

Harry has not been on the sea for long enough to blink but already he is tired of running.

He dashes down the hall, towards the stairs, towards the sky. His pristine black shoes squeak on the equally clean white stairs, announcing each step as he takes it. The noise is loud enough to wake the dead, to tell every man, woman and child on the ship that Harry Styles is here and Harry Styles is dying. He is always fading, going, going, gone, and the moment the cold air of the night slaps him in the face he feels like dropping to his knees. But he doesn’t. He keeps going. Each step is one step farther from his father, from the cigarette smoke clogging Harry’s lungs. Each step is one step closer to something close to freedom. 

He thinks of finding a friendly face, someone to share a moment with if not the night. He thinks of the boy with the toothy smile, Niall something, and he wishes he could remember the name. Maybe a kind face is all Harry needs to reel him back inside, back to safety. He could scour the ship, couldn’t he, until he found what he was looking for? How many damn _Nialls_ could there be on one ship, anyhow? Harry’s shoes scream against the top deck of the ship and no matter how many steps he takes he can’t help but think one thing. No matter how far he goes, he is still trapped. There is still his father to face, a grim future painted grey with a wife he could never love. Any girl his father chose would be nothing short of insufferable, stuffy and cold as everyone else his father kept at his side. The future looks like nothing but fake smiles to Harry. 

As he makes his way, running for his life, towards the back of the ship he finally realizes. The future he has waiting for him in not a future he wants at all. 

The night air rips from his lungs as Harry takes faster steps, dashing towards the propellers at the back of the ship like they offer anything close to comfort. Hell, maybe they do. All he has to do is reach them to know. 

Someone calls out, a voice Harry ignores; he doubts it was meant for him and he doubts even more whatever was said matters to him at all. There are not many people out here, up here in the dark. This is the Ship of Dreams, after all, and there are a lot of dreams to be had down below in warm beds. Desmond would call him something like _overdramatic_ or _pitiful_ but Harry gets the feeling anyhow that any dreams he would have here would be nightmares. 

He is trapped and there is nothing to do but make his way to the sea. 

No one stops him; no one asks him what he’s doing up here in the cold. The stars twinkle, glad to see him, happy to gleam with enough light for Harry to see by. The only thing he can hear is each breath he takes, painful and gasping and loud. His lungs feel icy, the air far colder than it seemed under the sun. Harry left his overcoat down in the dining hall and as each breath ghosts out before him he feels more and more like a ghost himself. 

So what does it matter, then, if Harry is a bit overdramatic and pitiful? It’s better than being soulless. 

In the end Harry reaches the end of the line. His shoes shriek on the deck as he hits with both hands and both knees the railings at the back of the ship. Mouth open, chest heaving, Harry does not hesitate this time to climb up onto the railings. There is no one out here, no one here to stop him. And why would he want to be stopped, anyway? There is nothing wrong with a burning desire to stare into the sea. Harry leans over the railing, far enough to see the propellers churning down below. They kick up water, sea water as black as the night sky. There is nothing horrifying about the way they move; soundless, graceful. Like they will sit obedient at the back of the ship for all of time, chugging away at mouthfuls of ocean water. 

Harry takes in a greedy mouthful of air and presses his forehead to the cold railings under his fingers. 

Sooner or later he will have to go back. He will have to turn around and go inside and face his father. And Desmond will call him a disgrace and he will be angry; he will tell Harry he is an embarrassment and a lousy excuse for a son. And Harry won’t fight back because he never fights back. He just runs and runs and runs. He bows his head and nods and never gets out anything beyond, “But…” before his father can quiet him again. In the end Harry is going to have to make his way to his room and he is going to have to come up with some explanation for running away. 

Sooner or later Harry is going to lose his mind. 

So maybe he can go back inside, apologize, make peace with the girls his father presents to him. Maybe he can marry and have children and bring wealth back to his family. Back to his father. But Harry is not like everyone else down there. Is he? Harry is not phony like them, not really. (Is he?) So maybe he can put on a hell of an act. But not tonight. Not right now. Because without his permission his feet start to move, carrying him over the railings. He swings one leg and then the other over the back of the ship, turning his body to face the massive, looming smokestacks painted a garish, bloody red. 

His chest is going to burst but for the moment Harry feels no fear. For the moment Harry feels peace. 

He turns on his heels, careful, slow, and before he is ready he is face to face with the sea. There is nothing here but Harry and the rolling Atlantic. Nothing at all. No air, no noise, just breathless, churning sea. It lies far below him, restless. 

Waiting. 

And Harry has been waiting, too, he realizes, waiting for the end. And this looks like it could be it. It would take one step. One release. Harry has never felt the desire to fall before, not until now. Because what would it matter, anyhow? Who would miss him? It’s not like his father would cry for him; he can see the look on Desmond’s face already. It would be just another thing his son could not overcome. Just another reason his son was never cut out for this life. 

Harry has never felt the scope of how deeply alone he is until he stands staring, helpless, at the ocean. 

Has it always been so black, the sea, looking back at Harry like an empty pair of eyes? 

Harry closes his so he doesn’t have to look as the ocean rushes up to meet him. His hands are slick and his heart pounding and if there was any good time to do this it would be right this very moment. He only has so much courage, after all, and it fades as fast as the ship cuts across the water. One step, that’s all. One slip of his fingers. One step. That’s all. All Harry has to do is let go. 

“I wouldn’t do that if I were you.” A voice cuts through all the raging voices in Harry’s head. This one is different. This one is light. Harry snaps his head up, his eyes open, and he keeps his back to the voice. He’s been caught. He’s been caught, goddammit, and the only thing he can think is how loud his father is going to be when he shouts the stars from the sky. “You don’t have to go all rigid on me,” the voice says. “I’m not going to come near you. You wouldn’t catch me dead trying to stare down the sea.” 

“Why not?” Harry snaps. He has a right to snap, doesn’t he? He lost his nerve and he lost his moment and he lashes out at the voice, the terror in his body shifting wildly to anger. “Why the hell can’t I just stand here? There’s nothing wrong with just standing here.” 

“No,” the voice chuckles. The voice, the boy behind Harry, has the nerve to laugh. Harry bristles. 

“So leave me alone,” he says. 

“Well, I would,” the voice says, soft and light and a little bit raspy, “but I’ve gone and done it now. I walked in on you hanging off the back of the ship and I’m responsible for you.”

“Excuse me?” Harry says. He cranes his neck in a desperate attempt to get a look at the voice, but whoever stands behind him takes a few hurried steps to the side to stay out of Harry’s line of sight. “Who are you to take responsibility for me? You have no idea who I am! How _dare_ you…”

The voice laughs again, a sound like tinkling bells. Harry can’t see him no matter which way he twists his neck. His hands ache on the railings, fingers icy, but he holds on. For the moment, anger blurring his vision, he holds on. 

“Why are you _laughing_ at me?” Harry asks. Instead of replying the voice makes a lot of strange noises behind Harry’s back, like he’s changing his damn clothes or kicking off his shoes. 

“I’m not laughing at you,” the voice says, gentle. “’M really not. You’ve just got a lot more fire in you than it looks like from the outside.” 

“What the hell are you…?”

“I saw you earlier, you know,” the voice says. “When I first boarded the ship. And I thought to meself, _there’s a boy who wouldn’t know a good time if it hit him straight across the face_. I even said it to me mate, _that boy’s sour face is what we have to look forward to the rest of the damn week_.”

“What the hell is wrong with…?”

“Ah, what’s wrong with _me_? No offense, love, but I’m not the one hanging off the back of the ship.” 

Harry shuts his mouth. The voice gets closer, footsteps soft like the crazy fool actually went and took his shoes off, and Harry has had enough. He opens his mouth just enough to grumble to the wind, “I thought you said you were not going to get any closer.” The voice pauses. 

“Ah,” he says. “You’re right. I did say that.” 

“So go away,” Harry says, and then just because he’s sick of this and wants this conversation to end, “please.” He punches out the last word and the voice quiets, the boy hovering behind Harry going still for a moment. Harry loosens his grip on the railing, willing the voice to leave him alone, but Harry Styles will never have such luck. 

“Don’t let go,” the voice says, and all at once he is way too close. Harry turns his head so fast his neck cracks like a gunshot in the dark. And his breath catches. The boy has a face to suit perfectly his voice, all sharp angles and dainty features. He has stubble on his face and the bluest eyes Harry has ever seen, bright and wide and alive. There are sharp corners to the boy’s voice and Harry should not be so shocked they are in his face too, along with the delicateness and the laughter. The boy locks eyes with Harry and his whole face lights up, lips parting. “There you are,” the voice says. The relief Harry feels hits him like a train, the weight pressing down on his chest lightening up just enough for him to drag in a breath that stings. 

“There _you_ are,” Harry replies. He tries to keep his voice curt, stern, but he is neither of those things. The boy sees right through him; it’s obvious in the impish, sharp toothed smile the boy offers him. 

“Whaddya think about coming back over here with me?” the voice asks. “I have time to talk if talking’s what you want.” Harry seems to have lost his tongue but that’s all right. His body does the talking for him. He nods. “Thatta boy,” the voice says. “Grab onto me, yeah?” 

“I’m scared,” Harry admits. It’s the first time he has admitted it in so little words. He has never said it to his father, not to anyone. Because he’s not just scared of falling, is he? He’s scared of living any longer in the life he’s living. He’s scared of it all. And it’s a stranger who is the first to know, a boy whose name Harry does not even know. He was going to let go, he was about to stop everything just as it became too much. Harry is not really about to climb back over the edge, is he? He’s not convinced by a boy with a sweet face…is he? 

“Don’t be scared, love,” the boy says. (So maybe Harry is.) Like it’s the most natural thing in the world, to go around calling people something as soft and sweet as that. The kindness in those four words is not lost on Harry. “I’ve got you. Just come over here to me.” Harry believes him. He glances back at the boy, at the open face and parted lips, and he gulps. 

“What is your…?” He swallows again, hard. “What’s your name?”

“I’m Louis,” the boy says. Harry feels close to breaking in two. Of course, of course, the most beautiful boy Harry has ever seen has a beautiful name fit just for him. “And how about you?”

“Harry,” Harry says. There is no need for a last name up here, for formalities. Up here he is not Harry Styles, son of Desmond Styles. Up here he can be just Harry. Harry and Louis, standing together under the night sky. Under the stars. 

“It’s a real pleasure to meet you, Harry,” Louis says, his voice a song. Harry lets himself sink for a brief moment into the way Louis’ tongue wraps around his name. “Come on, now. Over the edge you go.” The boy, Louis, reaches out for Harry and Harry surprises himself. He does not draw away. 

(It’s what he has been trained to do all his life, draw away. Drawing away is good for him; people never stay close enough to Harry for it to hurt when he does the drawing away first.)

“Careful, now,” Louis says. “Just turn around to face me, yeah? Then I’ll help you get back over here on dry land.” Harry lets out a laugh, a pathetic, shriveled up version of one but a laugh just the same. And Louis beams. “That’s the spirit.” One small hand closes over Harry’s wrist and Louis mutters instructions nice and slow, like Harry is an animal he might frighten away. “Just hold onto me arm and go slow. I won’t let you fall.” Like always, Harry does what he is told. 

This time is different. This time he wants to do so. He is not being held down and ordered around. This time the person offering directions wants something besides what is best for them. This person wants what is best for Harry. How he can surmise something so ridiculous from half a minute looking into the boy’s eyes, Harry has no idea.

At the same time he gets the feeling he is not wrong. 

He holds tight to Louis’ arm and lets the smaller boy guide him. “That’s it,” Louis says. “Nice and easy. No, now’s not the time to look down. We’re not looking down anymore.” By some miracle despite the boy’s straining arms and Harry’s shaking limbs, Harry gets turned around. And he laughs again. Louis had actually, honestly taken half his clothes off, a dirty wool coat and a pair of boots sitting splayed on the deck of the ship. “What’s so funny?” Louis asks. Face to face with the boy, with nothing keeping Harry onboard besides Louis’ arms, it gets a little harder to speak. 

“What were you doing, getting undressed?” he manages anyhow. His voice quakes only a little.

“Well,” Louis says, like he makes a habit of it, “if you were going to jump in I was going in after you.” He shrugs like it means nothing. 

“Why?” 

“I told you. ‘M responsible for you. It’s just you and me out here, mate, and I couldn’t just let you go.” 

“Why did you tell me I don’t want to jump?” Harry asks. He holds onto Louis’ forearms with all his might, leaning back on his heels. He hangs half off the ship, shoes and fingers slick, and if Louis were to let him go now he would fall. Without a doubt, he would fall. And yet he lets Louis hold all his weight, tethering Harry to the boat. There’s something in his face, something good, and he won’t let go. Louis won’t let him go. 

“Water’s damn cold,” comes Louis’ matter-of-fact reply, Louis’ face breaking into a grin. “Your pretty mouth wouldn’t look so pretty as blue as the Atlantic.” 

Harry is dumbfounded. Luckily, Louis is sharper than he is and Louis reminds him what is at stake. 

“Now what do you think? Ready to come back over here?” 

Harry nods. 

Louis braces himself, Louis starts to haul Harry back up over the edge. And Harry slips. 

It’s funny, almost, how desperately Harry does not want to die the moment he is given the chance. He cries out and he closes his eyes, ready to feel pain and then nothing else. But the boy who called him back is strong; Louis is strong and Harry’s body slams into the pristine ship and then Louis cries out, too. 

“I’ve got you!” Louis cries as Harry blinks stars from his eyes. “Don’t panic; I’ve got you!” And it’s funny, almost, because Harry believes him. Harry trusts him. He kicks uselessly at the ship, his shoes meeting metal, and Louis groans as he tries his best to keep holding on. Harry squeezes his eyes shut because blocking out what lies before him is what he does best. Louis’ hands hurt on Harry’s wrists but at least they are there. Louis is solid and he makes choking noises in the back of his throat as he heaves Harry up with all his might. “Mind helping me?!” Louis snaps. 

Harry falls back into reality as his eyes fly open. There’s noise, loads of it, and three or four or more pairs of shoes dash towards Harry and the back of the ship. Harry and Louis are no longer alone. The arrival of more bodies, more people to stare, is too much for Harry to bear. Finally, miraculously, he finds his legs, and he gets one foot and then the other up against the railings. 

“That’s it!” Louis gasps, triumphant. “Come on now, I’ve got you!” Just like that, just like a desperate attempt to jump never occurred, Harry is back on the ship. Louis stumbles backwards and without meaning to Harry grabs for him, catching him by the shoulders, steadying him. Louis smiles, timid, up at him for a moment and then the moment is gone, a hard body slamming into Harry and wrapping hotly around him. 

“What the bloody hell are you thinking, touching my son?!” Desmond Styles is shouting, one arm slung around Harry, engulfing him. Louis’ happy face falls and then it disappears from sight, Louis crying out as two of Desmond’s friends grab him from behind to keep him still. 

“Hey!” Harry tries. But it’s useless. Desmond rambles, furious, red faced, at Louis. 

“If I see your face again I swear on my life you won’t live to see America!” he shouts. His voice is loud in Harry’s ear, painful, gruff, and Harry tries to struggle away. But as strong as Louis is, Harry’s father is, too. Harry is pinned to his side. “Just what in the name of hell do you think you’re doing anywhere near my son? Do you have any idea who he is?!” 

“No,” comes Louis voice from somewhere far away. His voice is the perfect antidote for Desmond’s, soft and self-assured. Calm. “But Christ, if he’s anything at all like you I sure as hell don’t want to know.” And Harry wants to tell him he isn’t, he could never be, but the moment he opens his mouth Desmond erupts. He wants Louis arrested, thrown overboard, shot point blank for touching his son. He wants to sue, to strangle, to rip Louis’ throat out for his rudeness. Harry tunes him out. He is used to doing so, after all. He waits for his father to run out of steam and he rises up on his tiptoes, trying to get a look at Louis. Harry finds him with his arms held behind his back, standing perfectly still between two of his father’s friends. 

Louis smiles at him. 

“What are you smirking at?” Desmond wants to know, but Louis’ smile gives Harry back the voice his fall had taken from him. 

“He saved me,” Harry says, and all the motion stops. The men holding Louis back stop twisting his arms and Desmond stops shaking with rage. The night just…stops. But Louis doesn’t. And neither does Harry. “I was just trying to look at the ocean. I slipped and fell. It was stupid. You don’t have to tell me so. But Louis was here and he saved me. I would greatly appreciate it, then, if you two would please let him go.” At Harry’s order the men drop their arms, stepping back like Louis was made of fire. By all the light in his blue, blue eyes he might as well be. 

“That’s better,” Louis all but crows, and he tips an imaginary hat to the men as he bends to scoop up his coat and his boots. And Harry knows nothing about friendship and even less about love but God, does his heart soar at the sight. 

“Is my son telling the truth?” Desmond asks like he simply cannot believe it, the sheer idiocy of his only heir. “Is that how it happened? You, boy!” he snaps as Louis busies himself with the buttons of his coat. His head snaps up, eyes shining, and he looks on the verge of laughter. 

“That’s exactly how it happened, sir,” Louis says. “Swear.” He takes one step backwards and then two and Harry is sorry to see him eager to go, so sorry he could cry out with it. But he doesn’t. 

“In that case, I thank you,” Desmond says, as if he had not threatened Louis’ life just a moment ago. “You have done us a great service.” He fills his voice with importance and Harry does not miss the impish smile Louis tosses his way. But a moment later it’s gone, Louis nodding with sincere solemnity at Harry’s father. 

“Yes, sir, well thanks for saying so,” Louis says. “Just doing my duty. Now do you mind if I get a move on? I’m afraid my fingers might fall off from the cold.” As Desmond looks to Harry, eyebrows raised as he thinks of what to say, Harry looks away. He looks at Louis. And the stranger, the boy who plucked him off the back of the ship offers Harry a wink. 

“Listen,” Desmond says, as if anyone has a choice whether to listen or not when he has something to say, “how would you like to join us in first class for dinner tomorrow night? It’s the least I can offer for saving my idiotic son.” At the last moment his calmness breaks, anger darkening his voice a fraction. But Harry can’t focus on the wrath of his father for the moment. He can’t do anything but watch Louis and the way he exudes grace even as he stands in perfect stillness. 

“Come on, now,” Louis says. “He’s not idiotic. The sea is a siren, sir, and you can’t fault him for wanting a look.” 

(If the sea is a siren what does that make Louis?)

Harry is _definitely_ an idiot, struck dumb, but somehow his father lets out a chuckle and the tension in the air vanishes like it was never there. 

“Is that an acceptance of my invitation, then?” Desmond asks. Without missing a beat Louis replies.

“Yes, sir,” he says. “I would be delighted. You should get your son into some warm clothes, sir. He looks a little blue. Have a good night, now.” Before Harry can speak, before Harry can ask where he is sleeping so he can join him, Louis is gone.

Like he was never there. 

After a moment his father’s friends move, shrugging to each other and heading back inside. Desmond bids them goodnight and they wave their hands in perfect tandem, like one person instead of two, as Harry tries and fails to suppress a shiver that has nothing to do with the cold. More than anything he wants to tear away from his father’s hands and chase Louis back down below; he wants to crash into Louis and hold onto him for a moment, just to thank him if nothing else. But Desmond has an iron grip on Harry as soon as they are alone and Harry lets himself be guided. He always lets himself be guided. 

Harry is lucky and his father is brief with him. Either Desmond believed Harry’s story or he does not care about the truth, but it doesn’t matter much to Harry. He is left alone and shut into his room, a garishly decorated space full of clothing he will never wear and paintings he thinks will give him nightmares. But the longer he lies alone in the dark, tracing circles on his wrists where Louis gripped him tight, the less alone he feels. 

For the first time Harry thinks there is some merit to the name The Ship of Dreams.


	3. You Taught Me How to be Someone

Harry wakes up with bruises on his wrists in shades of purple and yellow. He admires them for a moment, tracing the faint markings of fingerprints on his skin. Without them he would have sworn he dreamt last night. He would have sworn he dreamt up Louis. But the truth is right there painted on Harry’s skin, bruises in the shapes of Louis’ fingers. 

Last night Harry wanted to die and last night a stranger saved his life.

Harry neglected to say _thank you_ ; Harry did not have time to say anything at all. The boy vanished and there are two thousand people on the Titanic. Harry could look for days and never see Louis again. At the thought his heart seizes up, pain tightening his chest. 

(What the hell does he care? Louis was just another face on the ship, albeit the most beautiful face Harry had ever seen.)

And when the hell did Harry begin to think people were beautiful, anyhow? He had never in all his life thought the word regarding more than ships and cars and brooches and jewels. He had never pinned the word to a face, to a pair of eyes, to a voice. But he lies in bed, hopeless, thinking of nothing but how beautiful Louis looked as he beamed. Maybe it is about time, then, that Harry stops thinking of beautiful things and starts chasing them instead. 

As Harry meanders his way through the morning, his mind far away, he tries his best to decipher where it has gone. His eyes are on his own face in the mirror, the miserable look on his face almost comical, but he does not see himself. He has no idea what he sees. Why should he see Louis, anyway? Louis is a stranger. Louis means nothing to him; nothing at all. 

Harry drops his hairbrush onto his vanity and buries his face in both hands. He is being crazy and he is not being honest. Louis might be a stranger but he means a lot more to Harry than he should. He saved Harry’s life, didn’t he? Harry’s forehead clunks painfully on his vanity as he screws his eyes up and tries to think of something, anything, besides the sound of Louis’ voice. Harry would never have jumped if Louis had not been there. Would he? He was melodramatic and foolish and he was just proving a point to himself, to no one. He was trying to prove he was brave and Louis the stranger did not save him. Harry owes him nothing and he needs to stop thinking before he erupts. He needs to…

“What on earth are you doing?” Harry’s father asks from behind him, and Harry snaps his head up so fast his neck cracks. Harry eyes his father in the mirror, Desmond wincing at the awful sound Harry’s joints make, and Harry is the first to look away. 

“Nothing,” Harry says. He picks his hairbrush back up just to hold onto something and he tries not to stiffen as his father sinks into the empty seat beside him. There are too many chairs in here, too many goddamn stools and benches and velvet covered chaise lounges. And all at once Harry wants all of them gone. All but one, one where Harry can sit in here and wait alone, filing his nails or brushing his curls out until the boat reached shore. There is nothing else left for him here. 

“Make yourself presentable, then, and come with me.” Harry looks back up into his father’s face and sees nothing but horrifying solemnity.

“Why?” Harry asks. “Where are we going?”

“You will find out when we get there,” Desmond says, and he says nothing more. Harry is left alone again, twirling his ivory hairbrush in both hands. He thinks for a moment of bolting, of running for his life, but he remembers the useless way the air burst from his lungs as he ran last night and he changes his mind. Running will do nothing. He has learned so now. The only thing he can do is draw in a long breath, deep and slow, and rise from his vanity and do as his father says. 

He slips into an overcoat a size too large for him to cover up the bruises on his wrists. He tucks his hair behind his ears and then pulls it forward again, desperate to hide. Harry has no idea what his father has planned for him but he gets the feeling this quiet moment of peace will be the last one for a while. People are loud in the worst way in the first class dining hall, booming voices devoid of anything resembling humanity. There might be a place on the ship where the people are loud with joy, with happiness, but Harry has no idea where to find it.

(A voice in his head tells him _exactly_ where to find it but Harry tries his best to shake it.)

“Harry!” Desmond calls from far away down the hall. “Are you coming or do I have to drag you?” 

“Drag me kicking and screaming,” Harry tells his reflection in his vanity mirror. “The people here could use a good show.” But his father calls for him again and this time he raises his voice to shout, “I’m coming!” loud enough for Desmond to hear. 

“Come!” his father shouts in return, and Harry’s moment of peace is shattered for good. He makes a stupid choice; he does all he can. He scoops his stupid, gaudy hairbrush into his hand and he leans back, giving himself room, and Harry smashes his reflection into glittering shards of broken glass. Harry drops the brush and he hears it crack on the floor, crunching into the glass, and he is going to pay for it later. But for the moment he can’t make himself care. His chest heaves, one shard of glass dangling, precarious, from the remains of his vanity. Harry watches it as it falls and with one more shout from his father he finally turns away.

“I’m coming!” Harry calls for the second time. It’s the last thing Harry wants to do but he can already feel his father’s hands on him, Desmond using all his willpower to avoid strangling Harry upon finding the shattered mirror. There is no point in worrying about Desmond’s wrath now. There are others who terrify Harry more. And he has a feeling deep in his churning stomach he is about to meet them. 

 

Harry’s father gives him a long look up and down as Harry follows him into the hall but Desmond says nothing. It is just as well; Harry feels close enough to snapping to keep his tongue between his teeth. If his father chose now to speak up, to speak down to him, Harry would erupt. He is sure of it. As it is he struggles to keep pace with his father as they make their way through first class, white hall after white hall. He would rather be anywhere else (at the bottom of the sea) but he does as he is told and he follows after his father. What was he thinking, anyhow, last night when he thought he might have a chance to run away? In the light of day his strange urge to follow Louis last night seems horrifying, stupid and childish. What was it he expected to find?

“Where are we going?” Harry asks fruitlessly. Just as he anticipated he is met with nothing but an icy look tossed his way. “Never mind,” Harry says. There are so many people here, bustling and shouting and making far too much noise. Why do people on this ship have to make so much useless noise? Harry would think people who held themselves in such high esteem would know when silence is better. But just as ever, he thought wrong. 

“I’m taking you to meet someone,” Desmond says over his shoulder. The height and the width he has on Harry makes Harry feel small, right at this moment more than ever. Harry tries not to visibly gulp as he nods. 

“Who?”

“A girl,” Desmond says, “and her family. And I expect you to be kind. I expect you to behave yourself and woo her like I know you are capable of. You can pretend to be completely uncaring and unaccommodating and charmless as you want but I know you better. You can be a wonderful boy. When you want to be.” Harry lets his jaw hang open for a moment before his father slaps it shut with one rap of his knuckles. The backhanded compliment is the kindest word Desmond has gifted Harry in as long as he can remember. He tries to lock it up and keep it close to his heart where he used to feel warm in the presence of his father instead of intimidated. Maybe there is some goodness left in his father’s heart, as far down as he tries to bury it. Harry tries to see something good as he follows his father but he does not make it easy. He casts the good moment aside with one jab. “If you cannot be charming today I cannot guarantee I won’t throw you over the side of the ship myself.”

Harry stops. 

For the first time since dragging him to bed Desmond brings up last night, doubling back to Harry when he realizes he walks alone. 

“Was that insensitive of me?” Desmond asks like any part of him cares. He drops his hands to Harry’s shoulders, squeezing a little more than he has to. “I apologize,” he says. “I just don’t know what to do with you, Harry, you have to understand that. I am just one man and so are you and I am not accustomed to doing this alone.” If he is trying for sympathy he is going to get none of it from Harry. 

“I hate you,” Harry says, simply, before he can stop himself. And just as simply, just as quick, the heat in his chest goes out like a flame. His father stares at him, mouth open, and it takes everything Harry has to keep from slapping him under his chin like Desmond always does to him. Harry stares back. 

“You don’t mean that,” Desmond says. “You don’t hate anyone. You don’t have it in you.”

“Is that supposed to make me back down?” Harry asks. “Is that supposed to keep me from fighting back? I’m not half as scared of you as you want me to be.” 

(He lies with ease and his father does not need to hear the truth. Harry speaks it clearly with the tremor in his voice.)

Desmond’s eyes narrow. He opens his mouth, closes it, and in the end he decides against exploding in view of the public eye. He turns away from Harry and motions him onward. The harsh words they exchanged forgotten just like everything else sticky and awful between them. It is just as well. Harry can bark just as loud as his father but he loses strength when it comes to his bite. 

Because he does not have a choice Harry follows his father, taking special care to tread on the backs of his shoes as much as he can. His father goes back to ignoring him and if silence is the best Harry can hope for, he will accept it. 

Harry does not know quite what his father plans for him but somebody else on the ship has a better plan. Before he can react, before he can open his mouth to protest, a pair of hands close over Harry’s shoulders and yank him back. He falls into an elevator, his back hitting the wall, and one of the hands shoots out to press the golden button for third class. Only once the doors close and the hands leave Harry’s shoulders does he turn around to face whoever pulled him away. He it met with a pair of gleaming brown eyes and an equally bright smile, his savior a boy with brown hair flopping over his face. Harry tries his best to compose himself and be the first to speak. He fails at both. 

“Hey,” the boy says, and he grabs Harry’s hand to shake it. Harry lets the boy pump his arm, feeling a bit too dazed to properly close his hand over the boy’s, but the boy does not seem to mind. “I’m here to save you. I’m Liam. Payne. Liam Payne. You really looked like you could use some saving, yeah?” 

“Uh,” Harry says. “Yeah.” 

“It took me forever to find ya,” the boy, Liam, says. “I was about to report back you had been taken hostage by your father or something.” 

“Report back…report back to who?” 

“Oh!” Liam says, giving himself a good smack on the forehead as the elevator doors slide open. “To Louis. I’m his best mate. We got real lucky to be here, him and I, and, well. He sent me to rescue you.”

“Rescue me?” Harry asks, just like he did not need rescuing, like it was wrong of Louis to assume something so wild like Harry would need rescuing. Harry tries his best but his best is far from good. Just as he prepares to bristle, outraged, he deflates. Liam pushes by him, reaching back for Harry’s arm, and just like that Harry follows someone other than his father around. 

Third class is a different world from first. There are people, a lot of them, a lot more than Harry can count, but they are different. They are slower, gentler, and every person Harry makes eye contact with offers him a smile. Before he knows it Harry is smiling back. The boy, Liam, pulls Harry down the hall and this is different. Harry is going to be in an unholy amount of trouble when he makes his way back upstairs, starting with the broken mirror and ending with the broken meeting, but Harry can’t force himself to care. This is good, this is amazing, and Liam starts to talk over his shoulder and Harry listens. 

“Won the bloody tickets in a card game,” Liam says. “Tommo has the best poker face in the entire world, I swear it.”

“Tommo?” Harry echoes, just for something to say. Something to do with his mouth besides gape, a sorry attempt at a smile scaring away more than one tiny child who waves at him. 

“Louis,” Liam says, tossing Harry a gleaming smile. “I’ve known him all my life. He likes it, when I call him that. The incomparable Tommo. That’s what he likes. Gives him a big head. Speaking of which, watch yours.” They take a step down and Harry narrowly avoids smacking his forehead on a low doorframe. The two of them pass a ballroom, empty of everything except a few broken or old instruments, banjos and guitars and tambourines. Harry almost snaps his neck for staring and Liam says, “Stay tonight, yeah, and see what you miss when you hide out upstairs.” Breathless, elated, Harry nods. 

“What is it?” Harry asks, only to be met with Liam shaking his head.

“You’d have to see it to believe it, mate,” Liam says, and Harry almost gets whiplash as Liam yanks him out of the hall and into a room. It’s about the size of a closet, two bunk beds taking up ninety percent of the space. And Louis occupies the other ten percent.

“Ah, the loyal knight returns with the beautiful prince!” Louis crows, hopping from the top bunk of one of the beds and landing light like a cat. Harry hardly has time to take him in, all of him, before Louis brushes by Harry to close the door to their room. The noise from the hall vanishes as Liam flops into bed, combing his hair over his eyes with his fingers. Harry is befuddled but the feeling is nothing new. Turning away from the door, Louis faces Harry, and he spreads his arms out wide. 

“Home sweet home,” Louis says. 

“It’s small,” Harry manages, and the smile that crosses Louis’ face lights up his eyes. 

(Were they that blue yesterday? Surely they were not so bright.)

“Ah, but it’s all I’ve got,” Louis says. “It’s more than we had at home, isn’t that right, Payno?”

“You could say that again,” Liam replies from where he lounges. Harry is grateful for his rescue, so grateful he could cry, but he can’t spare Liam a single glance. Louis lights up the tiny space like a tinier sun, a miniature flame or a comet or a star. The time Harry spent trying to talk himself out of yearning for Louis prove to be for nothing. Louis might as well be a star. The pull Harry feels coming from him is enough proof for him. 

(God, he looks beautiful. His hair is a mess and there is stubble on his cheeks and he wears nothing but an undershirt and a pair of dirty slacks, but, God, he’s a lovely picture.)

“Anyway,” Louis says with a clap of his hands, loud enough to startle Harry. “Look, I don’t mean to cause you any trouble. That’s why I sent Payno instead of going after you meself. I just…don’t take this the wrong way.”

“You have to tell me what _this_ is for me to take it any way at all,” Harry replies. He sounds hoarse and afraid even to himself, and he wonders if Liam can hear the shaky way he speaks. His cheeks heat, the space all too small, but the urge to run and never look back escapes him here. He would stay here under Louis’ gaze for as long as Louis would have him. Longer.

“You really are something else,” Louis says, bright. Like Harry is a gift, a present he can’t wait to unwrap. So maybe, lying in bed eying the bruises on his skin, Louis felt like a dream Harry should do anything but chase. But down here it isn’t like that at all. Down here Louis feels like the one thing Harry has never had. The one thing he has always been missing. God knows what the one thing is. But, God, Louis is it. 

“So are you,” Harry replies. 

“What I mean to say,” Louis tells him, taking one step closer. If he were anyone else in the world, anyone at all, Harry would match the move with a step of his own. A step backwards. But he lets Louis near him, close, close enough to touch, but Harry doesn’t reach out. Harry does not even try. “I’m trying to tell you I was worried about you, all right? I just wanted to make sure you were all right. I didn’t wanna hear it from someone else. I had to see for meself. And, well. You’re fine. Aren’t you?” This close Harry can see how long Louis’ eyelashes are, long as a girl’s, and he has no idea what to say. He gulps instead and he wants to be angry, to bristle, to tell Louis he is not his to rescue and to worry about. 

But he doesn’t. 

“I’m fine,” Harry says. Lying through his teeth. Because he’s not fine, not at all. His father is going to find his broken mirror and Louis is going to get a glimpse of his broken heart. Nothing is fine at all. Not with Louis so close. 

“You don’t look fine,” Louis says. He takes a step closer. This time Harry gets scared; this time Harry backs away. His back hits the closed door of Louis’ tiny room and all the air rushes from his lungs at once. It is just like last night; Harry can do anything but catch his breath. 

“No?” Harry breathes. 

“No,” Louis replies. Head cocked to the side, brow furrowed, like there is something deep inside Harry he wants to pull out with both hands. Harry does not like the feeling of being dissected one bit but it is a world better than being picked apart by the people upstairs. So he endures it. “You look…”

“Like you need to run,” Liam speaks up from his bunk, and Louis whirls on him. 

“Li, c’mon,” Louis says. “I asked you not to pick on him.” 

“I’m not picking on anyone,” Liam says, and despite the slow nonchalance in his voice Harry feels his cheeks begin to heat from pink to red. 

(He should not be down here; here the people may wait until Harry is out of earshot to talk about him but they will talk about him just the same.)

“Listen,” Louis says just as Harry tenses up his body to do exactly as Liam said. “Whaddya say we get the hell out of here? Out into the sun? Away from Liam?”

“Hey!” Liam cries. Louis ignores him. 

“He’s just gone all moody today because a pretty girl upstairs wouldn’t look at him,” Louis says, mouth twisting up beautifully with the effort of keeping back a laugh at Liam’s expense. 

“I’m not moody!” Liam cries, but Louis is already on the move. He doesn’t wait for Harry to agree or disagree or run the other way. He ducks under Harry’s arm and shoves open the door, leaving Harry to turn and follow him or stare, motionless, at Liam as he lies in his bed. For a moment Harry can’t manage anything but the latter. But then Louis calls his name, or some version of it, and Harry’s world begins to spin again.

“Harold, are you coming or not?” Louis asks. 

“Harold?” Harry echoes, but he for once he does not think before he moves. He follows Louis. For a wild, terrifying moment Harry thinks he might follow Louis to the end of the world. Beyond. But it’s a fleeting thing, small and slight, and Harry shakes it out of his head. But by the time he recovers his senses he loses his head again. Louis wraps one small hand around Harry’s wrist (his fingers are strong as they are dainty and they hardly close around Harry’s arm) and leads him away. Harry is lost in the clouds and he lets himself be guided. “Where are we going?” Harry tries to ask. But Louis turns to look at him, a wicked glimmer in his eyes, and Harry shuts his mouth. This is not like his father leading him to more tired, lousy faces. This is Louis leading him to the stars. 

“There is something I was thinking about last night,” Louis says, his hand cold on Harry’s wrist. Harry still wears his stupid overlarge overcoat and the sleeve tries to engulf Louis’ hand as they walk. The small sight is all Harry can see. 

“Yeah?” Harry all but chokes.

“Yeah,” Louis says. “I don’t mean to be so frank with you but I think it’s the only way to get you to listen. You run too fast for me. So listen.” He glances back at Harry, walking forward without looking with all the grace Harry’s long limbs lack. 

“I’m listening,” Harry says. 

“I just think there’s something up there you didn’t see.”

“On the top deck?” Harry asks, befuddled.

“Yeah,” Louis says. “Up in the clouds. The stars. There are some things I want to show you I think you might not have seen before. When you run too fast to look up it sort of seems unavoidable.” 

“Um,” is all Harry manages to say. He stumbles over the white steps, the metal clinking under the heels of his dress shoes as Louis leads them upstairs. Harry catches himself and he catches a glimpse of someone he knows. One of his father’s friends. And he starts to pull Louis back. “Wait,” Harry says. “My father.”

“Fuck him,” Louis says, and Harry’s mouth falls open. “Honestly, _fuck_ him.”

“He’s my…”

“Lousy excuse for a father,” Louis says. For the first time since Louis touched him Harry balks. Louis tries to keep going, up and up and up, and Harry’s elbow cracks as Louis gets stopped in his tracks. “What?” Louis asks. He doubles back, the two of them in the middle of the crowded hallway, and Harry has no idea what to say. “Am I wrong? Did I misread something?”

“No,” Harry breathes, but in the crowd Louis can’t hear him. He takes a step closer, his fingers almost warm now on Harry’s skin. 

“What?” Louis asks. 

“No,” Harry says, louder. 

“But you love him,” Louis says. 

Harry tries to say no but halfway out of his mouth it changes. Of course he loves his father. His father is all he has left. He has to love his father…doesn’t he? 

“You don’t know anything about me,” Harry challenges. Just because Louis stands too close to him and Harry has nowhere to hide under those blue, blue eyes. But God, Louis is everything Harry is not, and where Harry would shrink back Louis rises up and looks Harry in the eye. 

“No?” Louis asks, and again Harry says, 

“No.”

Louis sizes him up for a moment, a long moment that feels like a long string of moments making up a year or two or ten. They block the hall and Harry tries to guide them out of the way, out of sight, but Louis is not like Harry. He does not do as he is told. Not ever. 

“Louis, please,” Harry says. Soft. Desperate. And finally Louis concedes. He lowers himself down, deflating his puffed out chest, and he presses Harry to the white, white wall. The people around them do not give them a second glance. 

“Look, I’m sorry,” Louis says. He lets go of Harry’s wrist only to brace himself against the wall, one hand on either side of Harry’s head. Anyone else in the world, anyone else at all, and Harry would feel trapped. But caged in between Louis’ hands he just feels something he can’t quite put into words. It’s something warm and the heat is all Harry can comprehend, the heat of Louis’ body radiating off him as he pins Harry to the wall. “I’m coming off all wrong. There’s just one thing I want you to see. That’s all. Can I show you one thing, Harry, and then I won’t scare you anymore.”

“You’re not…” Harry begins. But to tell Louis he is not afraid would be a lie. He has never been so scared before as he is staring into Louis’ eyes. Because he thinks he has grasped the way Louis makes him feel. One word. Just one. _Safe._ Harry gulps and Louis’ eyes dip down, Louis exhaling, sharp. He is about to back away and Harry is about to lose him. So he swallows hard the lump in his throat and he tries again. “Show me,” he says. “Whatever it is. Show me.” 

And Louis, remarkable, beautiful Louis begins to laugh. He chuckles, his laugh brighter than the damn sun in the sky. His laugh is a little thing and then a bigger one, the sound bouncing off the walls. And before Harry knows it he surges forward, a painful yelp of a laugh escaping him, and he throws his arms around Louis’ middle. Because this is a miracle; Louis is a goddamn miracle, and Harry found him on the sea. Of all the places in the world, of all the wild things Harry has seen, he has found something here to make him feel alive. Louis staggers back and nearly topples the two of them to the floor. He finds his feet, his chest thumping with laughter, and he returns Harry’s clumsy hug with just as much intensity as Harry gives him. Harry buries his face in the crook of Louis’ neck and does not dwell for one more moment on anything but trying to give thanks to the boy who saved his life.

(How is it that Louis smells like the sea? He smells like heat and fire and home and something sweet like sugar and Harry is lost.)

“Thank you,” Harry breathes. Just in case Louis thinks poorly of him for behaving this way, for throwing himself into Louis’ arms. Just in case. But Louis tightens his one armed grip on Harry and uses his other hand to muss up Harry’s hair. 

“Hey, now,” Louis says. “It’s all right, love. You’re all right.” And no one has spoken so tenderly to Harry in so long, so long it hurts. Harry tries to laugh and it comes out like a gasp for air instead. Louis is the first to pull away, to hold Harry at arms’ length and give him the familiar look of trying to figure him out. “You are all right, aren’t you?”

“Show me,” Harry says, breathless. “Show me, show me.” 

“All right,” Louis says. He still has one arm wrapped around Harry’s shoulders and when he releases him he feels desperately cold. “Come with me, Harry. Come with me.” 

 

Louis is an artist. Louis is masterful with charcoal, Harry’s fingertips all over the sketchbook Louis presses into his hands. They sit shoulder to shoulder at the back of the ship, the very spot where Harry nearly teetered over the edge. The sight of the propellers does not bother Harry now. It looks peaceful now, the water churning like a warm bath instead of a relentless stormy sea. They sit alone together, their backs to the Atlantic, and Louis spins stories about the drawings in his book.

“Ah,” he says, reaching over Harry’s arm to point. “That was a little girl I saw back in France. I was there by accident, lost with Li. I saw her at the train station and I fell in love. She was four, five maybe, and I couldn’t ask her to sit still while I drew her, you know? So I just drew her like…” He makes a graceful motion with one hand, a motion like a ballerina taking flight, and Harry understands.

“In motion,” Harry finishes. Louis lowers his hand and lowers his head and smiles.

“Exactly,” he says. “Exactly, yeah.” 

“You’re amazing,” Harry says. 

“Not even close,” Louis says. “But my drawings aren’t really what I want to show you.” He shuts the book in Harry’s hands, closing Harry’s fingers inside. “I want to try to show you what I see.”

“And what is that?” Harry asks, letting the back of his hand brush against Louis’ as he pulls it free from Louis’ book. 

“It might help if you look up.” And Harry does. He looks up, first into Louis’ face and then into the sun, the only thing separating Harry from the sky being the massive masts of the ship. They cast shadows down the long, long plane of the top deck and Harry lets his eyes wander as much as his mind stays still. He focuses on one thing; the only thing he can see is Louis even as he looks away. “What am I looking for?” Harry asks. Louis’ answer is simple.

“Beauty.”

(Harry does not say he has already found it in the grace in Louis’ fingers.)

“The sky is beautiful,” Harry offers. Louis chuckles, jostling Harry with one shoulder. 

“Yes,” Louis says, “And I think that’s why you tried to fly. Look closer, love. At the people. The people who wouldn’t give you a second glance and me even less. There has to be something beautiful up here for you.” 

“No,” Harry says, because he has never seen anything quite as beautiful as the boy at his side, but he tries not to dwell on such a silly thought. Silly thoughts never get him anywhere. 

“Look harder,” Louis breathes. His touch leaves Harry breathless though he would never, ever tell him so. Louis takes Harry by the wrist, guiding Harry’s hand, and together they point up across the deck at a young woman clutching a baby to her chest. “Look how happy she is to be here,” Louis says. “Look at the way she holds her baby, Harry. Like she won’t ever love anything more than she loves her baby. Don’t you see that?”

“Yes,” Harry says. 

“And look,” Louis goes on, his hand and Harry’s leaving the woman and finding a pair of young boys playing jacks. They lose their ball as Harry and Louis watch, Harry hardly daring to breath. An old man catches it with his shoe and tosses it back, winking at the two boys, and before he can draw in another breath Harry finds himself smiling wide. “That’s right,” Louis says. “You see it now, don’t you?” 

“Yes,” Harry says again. 

“You misjudged this world for a moment, didn’t you, love?” Louis replies. 

“Yes,” Harry says, one more time. He opens his mouth to speak up, to say more, to thank Louis for gifting him an outlook he had lost. But a voice rings out across the deck, one of Desmond’s men calling Harry’s name, and Harry is in trouble. Harry pauses, unable to move, and the man calls for him again. Louder this time. The last thing Harry wants to do is move but it is Louis who moves first. 

“Better go, love,” Louis breathes. “Don’t forget, I’ll be seeing you at dinner.” 

“Right,” Harry says just for something to say. Something besides _save me from this place_ or _take me far away_. Louis seems to get the message anyhow. 

“You’ll be all right,” Louis says. “And I’ll see you soon. Yeah?” 

“Yeah,” Harry says, and as his father’s man gets closer, eyes screwed up against the sun, Louis gets up to leave. By the time the man reaches him and begins to chastise him for vanishing Louis is gone. And Harry does not hear the rest.


	4. I Want to be Known By You

Harry’s crisp black shoes crunch merciless in broken glass as his father shouts his name. What he says is nothing new and Harry keeps his head bowed and takes it all. There is something heavy in his chest now, something he did not have when he woke up in the morning. He has the things Louis said to him. The warm and lovely things his father can’t touch. The only thing that gets through to Harry is the smack his father gives him to the back of his head to get his attention. 

“Get off!” Harry snaps just because there is a boy on this ship who thinks more of him than he does. Who thinks he deserves better than this. 

“I want you to stay in your room until dinner,” Desmond says, running his palms together like the smack he gave Harry hurt him more than it did his son. “And I do not want to hear a word about it. So help me God, Harry, if I have to lock you in, I will.” 

“You wouldn’t,” Harry challenges. “You can’t do that to me.” 

“Until you can respect me, I feel no need to respect you,” Desmond replies. Like that is that, that is all. There is nothing more to it than his opinion and his alone. He stands, glowering, and Harry is powerless. 

“You’ll be waiting a long time, then,” Harry spits, and the momentary look of horror on his father’s face is well worth being left alone with his shattered mirror. Harry sits down hard at his broken vanity and buries his face in his hands. A deep breath does nothing to calm him, his heart racing, and he squeezes his eyes shut against his palms. Thoughts of a second rescue dashed before he can conjure them up, Harry sits alone and tries to come up with something sane he could do to pass the time. There are many wild things he could do, after all, stupid things that would come to nothing, but he could do them just the same. There is an unbroken chair and an unbroken gilded picture frame. They sit alone just like Harry, waiting to be dashed to pieces (much like Harry). 

He thinks for a moment of leaving a path of destruction behind him, of tearing this room to shreds. It would come to nothing, nothing at all, but what else can he do?

He does nothing. 

By the time Harry finally decides to move, bones creaking, he manages to remain calm upon discovering the door his father shut behind him is locked. It is just as well. There’s not much he can do, anyhow, to make his father hear him. He might as well sit here and rot away until he is set free. Harry has an image in his head, an idea of Louis turning on his heels and running when he sees Harry fading away. He feels useless, pathetic, and how can someone as bright as Louis want to spend his nights on the Ship of Dreams with someone like Harry? 

All Harry would do is drag him down. 

It’s an easy thing, sitting down to let the world take control, but Harry is tired of submission being his only choice. He is old enough to know when his father is wrong and he is old enough to know when there is a better choice to make. Harry could sit here alone until nightfall, until every damn star falls from the sky. But there is a world far above him, a boy and a sketchbook and a smile, and Harry stands before he can stop and think and change his mind. He is getting out of here even if it kills him. 

The parlor door is locked but it’s the only one. Harry slips, easily as if he were a ghost, out of his room and out into the hall. He slips away, head down, and not one person tries to stop him. For a moment he strews broken glass across the hall with the toes of his shoes but he leaves it behind him. He does not look back.

The sun beckons Harry like a siren, like the open sea, and Harry tilts his head back and takes it all in. What is his father going to do, anyhow? There is nothing Harry is afraid of up here. He could leap from the front of the ship and let it glide over him; he could crawl to the underbelly of the ship and fall headfirst into the churning engines. There are more frightening things on this ship than Desmond Styles. All Harry has to do is find them. And there is a freedom in the thought, the realization that Harry has nothing to fear. But the voice in the back of his head, the voice that sounds like his father, reminds Harry the ship has a destination. A final resting place, a dock to be tied to, a home. And Harry will have to disembark in the end and face all the wrong he has done. 

So be it. 

Maybe Harry will hit the ground running; maybe Harry will leave the moment he gets the chance. Who decided Harry has to walk off the ship with the same man who led him to the dock? Harry is his own person, is he not? He can leave by himself; he can leave with anyone. 

He can leave with Louis. 

Harry shocks even himself as Louis’ name crosses his mind. He knows the boy’s name and not much else, nothing beyond a hint of mischief and a twisted, smirking smile. There is nothing Louis can offer Harry. Nothing at all. 

Nothing but affection, nothing but touch and art and a twinkling pair of eyes. A promise without words of a better place than here. 

Harry closes his eyes against the sun and decides to tell Louis it might mean something after all. 

 

Stoic and still and so anxious he quakes, Harry waits at his father’s side. If Desmond has any mind to speak to Harry about his disappearance, he gives no sign. When Harry returned to him (if only to avoid a smack on the ear in front of a dozen strangers) Desmond did nothing but order him to get ready for dinner. Harry doubts his father recalls his invitation to Louis, his decision to value Harry’s life at one meal in first class, but Harry remembers. Seeing Louis is all Harry can think about. 

“Be still, Harry,” Desmond says. Maybe Harry is not being as still as he thinks he is. He stops swaying where he stands, hands laced behind his back, and he tries to straighten up and look smart. “Try a little harder. I promise it will not kill you.” An hour cooped up in a smoky dining hall with London’s finest just might but Harry says nothing. He has something to look forward to now and Louis is not something he wants to miss. 

When Harry finally, blessedly catches sight of Louis he stills so suddenly his father takes notice. Desmond follows Harry’s gaze and offers up a disapproving cluck of his tongue and nothing more. Harry could not possibly care less even if he tried. 

Louis is radiant. He could not look more different from the boy Harry met earlier in third class. Louis wears a suit and a smile, obvious in the way he knows how damn good he looks. He smirks, eyes gleaming, as he takes slow steps towards Harry. Harry and his father wait at the bottom of the ornate main staircase, the banisters shining gold. Louis stands at the top, making his way down to Harry like he puts on a show. Like he knows he is as beautiful as anything on this ship and he loves nothing more than showing it off. 

“Let’s get this over with,” Desmond mutters in Harry’s ear, “and I don’t ever want to see his face again.” Harry does not have time to mask his look of horror before Louis is before him, one hand extended to take Harry’s. 

“It’s a pleasure to see you again,” Louis says, eliciting a groan from Desmond with one simple move. He raises Harry’s hand, fingers cool, and presses his lips to Harry’s knuckles. “It’s been a long twenty-four hours since I have been graced with your presence, after all,” he goes on, and Harry feels he could burst into flame. 

“The pleasure is all mine,” Harry manages. Louis gives him a wink and only drops his hand to pump Desmond’s, enjoying every moment of torturing Harry’s father. 

“Thank you again, with all me heart, for the invitation,” Louis says, giving Desmond no choice but to smile and nod and act the gentlemen. There are dozens of people around, after all, people Desmond wants to please. Here he has to behave. But so does Harry. The reminder comes in the form of his father clearing his throat, demanding Harry’s attention. 

“Remember what I said,” he says, like Harry could forget all of his father’s idle and not so idle threats. 

“Of course,” Harry says, curt, and he lets his eyes fall from Louis to the floor. Even marred by hundreds of shoe prints, scuffs and dirt decorating the tile, the floor is still far more interesting and alluring than looking his father in the eye. 

“May I?” Louis asks. Harry does not look up to see what Louis asks of him; all he does is jump out of his skin when Louis moves regardless. Louis slides his arm through Harry’s, not caring one bit who sees, and he acts as Harry’s guide towards the dinner table.

(Harry feels electric, heat in his face and in his stomach. Louis’ touch is too much for him, too much with all the eyes in the world on him.)

Louis pulls out Harry’s chair and he can feel eyes, more than he can count, and he keeps his back hunched and his head down to avoid them. Louis’ hand does not leave Harry’s body until Louis is seated at his side. 

The world could end right here, right now, and Harry would be too busy noticing Louis to notice. 

Desmond exchanges greetings with the ten or so men and their wives at the table, Desmond introduces his beautiful, clever, stunning son, and he does not mention Louis at all. If it bothers Louis he pretends it does not; he makes small talk with the woman across the table from him (Harry forgets her name but she is loud, brighter by far than Desmond or anyone else at the table). Harry chooses to focus on her voice instead of his father’s as he waits for the pleasantries to pass. 

“And who is this accompanying you?” the woman asks Harry’s father, and Harry forces himself to look up. He glances at Louis, ramrod straight in his chair, and he glances at the woman. He even spares a moment of his time to glance at his father but he is not as stupid as his father claims and he knows the look on his father’s face before he sees it. 

“Ah, this is…” Desmond says, voice low. He pauses. And he’s forgotten, of course he has, and Harry could _kill_ him with the heat coursing through his churning stomach. 

“Louis,” Harry says just to keep from screaming. “Louis Tomlinson.” The name makes him feel something other than sick, other than wane. It feels good to say it. To speak up for once. 

“Yes, yes,” Desmond says. “Mr. Tomlinson is joining us today from third class. He was a momentary but much appreciated help to my son last night.” 

Harry could strangle him. He wishes, wildly, he could. 

The conversation continues over his bowed head but Harry wants nothing to do with it. He busies himself nudging Louis’ knee with his own as if he did not already have every bit of Louis’ attention. Louis nudges him back under the table. A secret, a smirk, and Harry has him. 

(And if this is the Ship of Dreams and everything he could want and more is his, why can’t Harry have Louis, too?) 

“You are a lot braver than I am,” Harry leans close to whisper. As electric as he feels Louis seems to feel it double, stiffening as Harry breathes close to his ear. 

“No,” Louis whispers in return. “I’m just a better actor. It’s easy. One handshake and they think I’m one of them. I’ve got this whole new money thing down pat, don’t you think?” 

“Is that what you are playing?” Harry asks in return. 

“I think I do it well,” Louis breathes, and just as his fingertips ghost up Harry’s knee someone else claims his attention. 

“What was that?” Louis asks one of the grey haired men seated across from him, his moment stolen from him as much as it was stolen from Harry. The man asks his question again, wondering (unkindly or not, Harry can’t quite tell) how Louis acquired his ticket to step foot on the Titanic. “Ah,” Louis says. Like he is about to start the story of a lifetime. “See, I just got lucky. Just like anyone else on here, I suppose.” Harry is so enraptured by the upturn to his voice, the lightness with which he speaks, that he hardly reacts when again Louis’ hand finds his leg under the table. Harry lets it stay there. 

(His skin is warm and the weight of his palm makes Harry feel a touch safer than he did before.)

“We won our tickets, me mate and I, in a poker game,” Louis goes on. “I play a damn good hand of poker on a normal day but this was something special. This was fate, I think. He thinks so too. Couldn’t stop screaming it as we raced for the ship. Almost missed it and everything. But it was meant to be, I guess, in the end, and…well, I couldn’t be more pleased to be here. It’s a chance I couldn’t pass up.”

The men around the table wholeheartedly agree with Louis, nodding along with every word he says just like they do to everyone else. It is so comical, so absurd Harry has to bite down on his tongue to keep from laughing. Louis’ fingers flex on Harry’s knee and the urge to laugh all but goes away. The urge is replaced with something warmer, deeper in his chest than the bubbling laughter. Just the same, Harry ignores it. Here there is not much he can do about it (he can’t tell Louis to cut it out, as little as he wants to, and he can’t get up and drag Louis along with him somewhere they can be alone). He lets it be. 

“Anyway,” Louis says, fingers doing a strange, rhythmic dance up Harry’s thigh, “I figured I have a limited amount of moments in life. And I’m not about wasting mine. I was always told me whole life to make it count, you know? Make every moment count. And, well. Last week I was sleeping under a bridge with me best mate and today I’m sitting here with all of you. You never know what you’re going to get. That’s all I’m trying to say.” Louis shrugs like it’s nothing but he has the attention of everyone now. He has them enraptured. 

“Here, here!” a man says, and just like that he raises his glass. “A toast, then! To making it count!” 

“To making it count,” the table rumbles in agreement, glasses clinking and champagne sloshing sloppily across the pristine tablecloth. Harry is too slow to join in and he is glad. He is too stunned by the hand on his leg to move, anyhow, and it is just as well he loses his chance. The glasses hit the table and the conversation goes on without Harry and without Louis. Far before Harry is ready to say goodnight, to say goodbye, the men make their punctual as always rise from their seats to make way for the smoking room. Harry has always hated the tradition, the heavy air and the tang of cigar smoke on his tongue. He hangs back and shakes his head at a few attempts to invite him. 

“I don’t smoke, thank you,” Harry says, time after time to no avail. 

“Might want to pick it up,” Louis whispers in his ear, and he leans over the table to ask one of the remaining wives for a pencil. A hand utterly unlike Louis’ falls over the back of Harry’s neck as Louis’ lifts away. Harry’s father gets his attention in the best way he knows how. A gruff command. 

“You might want to go to bed, Harry,” he says. “You have some people to meet tomorrow and I want you looking and feeling your best.” Louis scribbles at Harry’s side (Harry can see from the corner of his eye the way Louis pokes his tongue between his teeth to write) and Harry tries to focus on his father instead. His knee feels light, cold, with Louis’ hand gone and Harry thinks he might do anything to get it back. 

“Actually, I was thinking of taking a walk,” Harry replies. He keeps a tremor from his voice and thanks God for tiny miracles. He intends only to walk to Louis’ room and intends only to keep moving the moment he gets the door shut, roommate be damned. 

“Your companion, then,” Desmond tries. “I am sure he would rather be in bed than here with you. Isn’t that right, Mr. Tomlinson?”

“And how,” Louis agrees as he hands the rather baffled looking woman across the table her pencil. “Another moment alone with your son and I might lose my goddamn mind.” The admission shakes Desmond so deeply he does nothing but stand with his hand on Harry’s neck for a moment. He recovers before Harry, who feels nothing but shock in the pit of his stomach, and he clears his throat. 

“In that case,” he says, squeezing Harry just a bit too hard, “I think it’s best if you take your leave. It was a pleasure to become better acquainted with you. The pleasure was yours, I’m sure.” Desmond’s friends filter from the room like animals at a zoo, clumsy as they spill drinks and laugh with their heads tipped back. The epitome of fake laughter, the end all be all of forced joy. Harry sees it all as well as he feels it. Palms sweating, the moment his father is out of sight Harry stands. 

“Well,” he says. He will not let utter betrayal cross his voice or his mind. He will not. He stands and so does Louis and if this is goodbye then so be it. “I suppose this is it, then. I must say, I…” 

“You big idiot,” Louis interrupts. Mouth twisted up as ever, gleeful, impish. Elated. He takes hold of Harry’s hand and pumps it once, twice, three times, and he lets go. He leaves Harry with a folded napkin in his palm and a frown on his face, turning on his heels to walk away. Harry unfolds the note as he watches Louis leave and dips his head down to read it.

_Want to go to a real party?_ the note reads in a frenzied script entirely Louis. _Meet me by the clock. Make it count!_

Harry does.

He gives himself no time to ponder, to marvel at the show Louis put on for his father, for his men. He gives himself no time to look back nor to think. And he is better for it. _Elated._

“Louis!” Harry crows as he catches Louis at the top of the stairs. The massive golden clock smack between two staircases sits gleaming behind Louis, the same as ever, and Louis beams, just the same. 

“Harold!” Louis crows, and he throws his arms out wide. Harry only just avoids jumping into them in front of a crowd of twenty. All he can think about it getting Louis all to himself, all alone, where he can speak his mind and tell Louis everything he feels. He has no idea what that is, the things churning his stomach, but Louis is speaking and Harry listens. “You’ve seen what the world looks like from the top. What do you say we see if you like the view better from the bottom?”

 

Harry likes it just fine. The creaking, crackling sounds of old instruments and young men break all forms of silence (the silence in Harry’s bones and the silence in his head) and Louis breaks the rest. He tears around the third class ballroom like a twister, like a madman, leaving Harry no choice but to follow. Beer flows from unseen sources and Harry happily takes a glass shoved into his hand. The smile Louis gives him after he downs his first and accepts his second is the best thing Harry’s eyes have ever seen. 

“Dance with me!” Louis beams, and just because Louis is a mystery and Louis is beautiful Harry obliges. He takes Louis’ hand and lets himself be whirled across the room, Louis doing all the leading. Harry has never danced like this before, taking the role of a girl, but it only seems natural to let Louis take control. “Look alive!” Louis shouts. He shouts over the music, over the low rumble of a party, but Harry can hear him just fine. Louis is all he can hear. 

Louis whirls him past a dozen unfamiliar faces and in the sea of blurry faces Harry sees two he knows. The boy from Harry’s first time on the ship, the boy he met a lifetime or more ago, sits with a beer in one hand and Louis’ roommates hand in the other. The two, Niall and Liam, arm wrestle across the makeshift table created from a turned over crate. Louis spins Harry right past them and back again, Harry craning his neck to watch the end result. Liam wins in a landslide and Niall demands a rematch, shoving his disheveled blonde hair back with both hands. 

“Want to give it a go?” Louis asks. With a laugh that surprises him, Harry tells him no. 

“I could never!” Harry shouts. 

“Scared to lose, Harold?” 

“Never!” Harry replies. Louis laughs, a high, beautiful thing, and he gives Harry a twirl that makes his head spin. There is never a quiet moment with Louis, never a moment to pause and ponder and think. And Harry could not be happier even if he tried. 

Louis spins Harry into a chair and in the next moment he is gone, returning with Niall and Liam in tow. “Harry fancies himself an expert!” Louis says even as Harry shakes his head no so violently his sweat damp hair falls over his eyes. 

“I’ll take a whack at him,” Niall replies, and without thinking, without pausing, Harry lets Niall take his hand and plant his elbow on the table between them. 

“Go easy on him,” Louis says. He takes his place behind Harry, hovering just behind and below his ear. “I might need those hands of his later.” Liam groans and Harry has no time to blush, to chastise Louis, to wonder what the hell he means. Niall takes advantage of Harry’s distraction and slams the back of Harry’s hand on the table, crowing with joy at his victory. “Oy, I said don’t hurt him!” Louis says, but Harry is all right. 

He has not felt closer to all right in years. 

Harry loses match after match, Niall patient as he tries to teach Harry how to place his elbow just right so he can have a fighting chance. It’s useless and Niall switches to Liam, leaving Harry alone at his little table. But Louis is here and Louis is beaming. Harry is not alone for long. 

“What do you think?” he asks, Harry’s eyes on the pink spots high on Louis’ cheeks. If Louis were a girl Harry might be brave enough to lean in and kiss them. First one and then the other. But surely Louis would not want that; surely Louis would not want any sort of kiss from someone like Harry. From another man. But God, Louis sits so close, one knee brushing Harry’s, and he was fine a moment ago but might not be so now. Harry gulps. 

“Love it,” he says. “I absolutely love it.” 

“I knew you would,” Louis says. He smiles so wide his eyes crinkle up to slits, his teeth gleaming. And then so quickly Harry feels his stomach drop, the smile fades from Louis’ face. He grows somber. “You look so much different down here than you do up there,” he says. “Up there you’re a porcelain doll. Like the ones me sisters back home might have.”

“You have sisters,” Harry says, not asking, just grasping for something safe to say. 

“Yes,” Louis says. He moves a little closer, just a touch. 

“I did, too,” Harry breathes. “One.” 

“You don’t anymore?”

“No. I used to have a mother, too. Now I don’t.”

“I’m sorry,” Louis says. “Want to tell me about them?” 

“No,” Harry replies. It is far too hot in here; sweat pools at the small of Harry’s back and he glances over Louis’ head to the door. 

“I’m sorry,” Louis says again, more urgent this time. “Hey, I’m sorry. I want to hear the story of your life, Harry. But don’t worry. You don’t have to tell me anything now. Let’s just dance. C’mon, I’ll get the boys to play us something slow.” 

Louis rises, whispers to the boys messing around with their instruments, and all at once the atmosphere in the room changes to something entirely new. Louis saunters back to Harry, hands in his pockets, and he wrestles one free to offer it up. 

“Excuse me,” Louis says, a half formed laugh bubbling up on his lips, “but you look a little lonely sitting there. Can I ask for a dance?” There is joy in the ballroom, boundless amounts of it, but it’s different now. It’s not fiery, it’s not brash. It’s quiet. Slow. And just what Harry needs. 

“Of course,” Harry says. He takes Louis’ hand, the hand so much smaller than his own, and with a swell of music and a hand on his back, Harry settles warm into a strong pair of arms. 

“That’s it, love,” Louis says. “I’ve got you.” 

Harry may not be smart but he knows sincerity when he hears it. And he believes Louis with everything he has. 

“I know,” he replies. He presses his forehead to Louis’ shoulder and breathes him in. 

“Hush,” Louis says. Harry did not say a word but there are a thousand inside of him; a hundred thousand. More. So many things he wants to say and things he never will, silly things it would do him no good to confess. And Louis hears them all. Louis has a warm hand nestled in the small of Harry’s back and the other in Harry’s hand, guiding him in lazy circles around the ballroom. The two of them are the only people on the floor for a moment, the only people in the world, but the moment does not last long. Couples begin to filter in, to sway to the music as it builds and ebbs and flows. Harry thinks he might recognize the song as one his mother used to hum but he does not tell Louis so. The time for stories is later, later, later; they have all the time in the world to learn one another.

If that is what Louis wants, Harry wants nothing more. 

“You’re a good dancer,” Louis says above Harry’s head. “Granted, not as good as me, but with a little practice…” 

This time it is Harry’s turn to whisper, “Hush.” And Louis does. He laughs once, quiet, and he swallows it down. He guides Harry, graceful and slow, and the world slows with them. 

Harry tries to tell himself it’s inconsequential, whatever this is. That it’s all right, it’s fine, to dance with a boy in a crowded room. He might not be smart but he sure as hell is not stupid. He can already hear his father, his friends, mercilessly jabbing at Harry for his disinterest in girl after girl. He can see the look on his father’s face, the inflection in his voice. The disappointment written all over him. 

It doesn’t matter now. It should not matter now. 

But it does. 

Louis feels Harry start to draw away before he knows he intends to. “Hey, now,” he says, but Harry makes mistake after mistake and he thinks this could be one of them. “Hey, nothing is real down here,” Louis says. “I promise. Whatever it is that’s troubling you isn’t real.”

“I know,” Harry says. He knows but the thought is nothing close to comfort. By Louis’ argument, Louis is not real, either. And at the end of the day it is not Louis Harry has to answer to. It’s the men upstairs, his father. The people he will follow off the ship, to the end of the world, to the goddamn end of his life. 

“You’re with me,” Louis says. He holds Harry close to his body to keep him tethered, to keep him safe. His efforts are not lost on Harry. “And I promise I won’t let anything bad touch you as long as you stay with me. Do you hear me?” 

Harry squeezes his eyes shut and picks his head up off Louis’ shoulder. He takes a deep breath, holds it in, and does the wildest thing he has ever done. He gives Louis a kiss. A tiny kiss, a little thing, but a kiss just the same. Harry presses his lips, chaste and dry, to Louis’ temple. And Louis lets him. The moment stretches, heavy; Harry backs away. He catches Louis’ eye, shock lighting up his face, and he tries his best not to flee. 

“Sorry,” Harry says just for something, anything to say. 

“Don’t be,” Louis manages. He lets go of Harry, the song ending and a faster, louder version taking over in its wake. Louis raises one slender hand and touches his fingertips to the spot Harry kissed. His mouth twitches up. And he blushes. “Well goddamn, Harry Styles,” he says, letting his hand fall. “They call this the Ship of Dreams but I think I’m just getting around to believing them.” He surges up on his tiptoes to give Harry a kiss in the exact same spot and Harry thinks he agrees.


	5. Forever It'll Be

Just as ever, Harry can count on his father to pretend unpleasant things never occurred. Just as ever, Harry stands before his brand new vanity mirror and preens. His father fusses over the wrinkled tails of his jacket, yanking the fabric at Harry’s back. Neither he nor his father say anything to one another. Harry enjoys the silence, as anxious as he is to get the shouting and the angry words over with. He contemplates beginning the conversation himself as he sways back and forth before the mirror. It might be easier that way, to get what he wants to say out of the way before his father can silence him. 

“This is never going to lie flat,” Desmond laments, and the breath Harry drew in to speak rushes out again. “What did you do to this jacket, Harry? Honestly, you look a mess.”

“I’m sorry,” Harry says. Try as he might he sees nothing wrong with the jacket. The front looks nice enough anyway, well pressed and neat. Maybe there is a disaster behind him but it’s nothing he can see. 

“What am I going to do with you?” Harry’s father asks of him. Harry gets the feeling he is no longer talking about the damn jacket. 

“Send me away to boarding school, I presume,” Harry says just for the hell of it, and Desmond’s face sours in the mirror. 

“Believe it or not, Harry, I need you,” his father says. His mouth pressed into a hard line, Desmond sighs. Harry waits a long moment for him to speak again. It’s a little easier to look at his father in the mirror rather than straight on. This way Harry can pretend there is space between them, a thin shield protecting him from the words his father slings. “I don’t want you to see that boy anymore,” Desmond finally says. Like it is the hardest thing he has ever had to say. “In fact, I forbid you. He is no good for you and I think you know that.”

Harry says nothing.

“I don’t know why I need to keep reminding you what is at stake here, Harry,” Harry’s father says. He fusses fruitlessly with Harry’s jacket and Harry lets him. 

“What is that, exactly?” Harry asks. 

“Our family name,” Desmond says, sharp. “Everything I have ever worked for. All we have left is our name, Harry. Our name and nothing more. We have no money left, nothing at all. We are in debt to more people than I can count, Harry. And you are our only hope to bring meaning back to my name. Do you understand me?”

Harry hesitates for a moment that stretches painfully long. “Maybe I don’t want your name,” he says. Just like that, Desmond snaps. He whips Harry around to face him, both hands on Harry’s shoulders and his face twisted up in pain. 

“No?” Desmond asks, ignoring Harry’s cries of protest. His father’s hands are tight, fingers digging in, and Harry does not have to stand for this. He has never wanted the name, the money, the glory. His father’s world was never for him. And yet his father has the nerve, the gall to tell Harry his fate lies in Harry’s hands. Harry says the first thing he thinks and lets petulance paint his voice red. 

“It isn’t fair,” he spits. “You can’t ask so much of me.” 

“You are my son,” Desmond contradicts, “and I can ask of you whatever I please. Don’t forget what we are here for. We are here to find you someone to marry. A girl whose father has more money and power than yours. Is that so much to ask?” 

“Most marry for love,” Harry replies. “Did you not?” The question seems to get under his father’s skin and that is exactly where he wants to be. If Harry’s father can get under his skin whenever he pleases then the least Harry deserves is the chance to return the favor. 

“Marriage is not a game, Harry,” Desmond says. “This is not a game, either. Do you think this is a pleasure cruise, Harry? Hmm? Do you think I can afford to be here if you do not leave an engaged man?”

“I don’t care,” Harry snaps. “I don’t care.” It is the bravest thing he has ever said, the wildest thing he has ever let pass his lips. And yet it’s out there, clear as day, and there is nothing Harry can do to take it back. His father knows the truth, at least. He knows where Harry’s feelings lie. 

But his father surprises Harry. His father screws up his face like he is about to cry. He releases Harry and he turns away, both hands over his face and his back hunched. Harry waits, Desmond’s spine bending, for his father to speak. One way or the other his father is going to speak first. If Harry tries he might scream. 

“Don’t you care about me, Harry?” his father asks. “Do you want me to have to work all day and all night to feed myself? Is that what you want? Tell me, Harry, would it make you happy to see me sell all my things, all the lovely things your mother left us? Because it’s all we have left, Harry. All of it will go away if I cannot make you listen to me.” Desmond’s breath hitches once, twice, and Harry’s heart sinks. 

“Don’t assume so much,” Harry says, for the moment defeated. He goes for his father’s shaking shoulder with one hand but his father turns again to face him, face red. Eyes wet. Harry takes back the one step he took forward. 

“No?” Desmond asks. “What should I assume, then? By your behavior since you stepped foot on this ship there are more than a few things I believe I can safely assume.”

“Go on, then,” Harry says. “Tell me.” 

Desmond’s eyes flash and even so he looks less and less terrifying the longer he takes to open his mouth. Harry does not have much in terms of courage but at the very least he is not going to let his father get the best of him. Not here, anyway, not in his room with no way out. Not down here where accepting defeat would be accepting living in a cage. Harry’s father draws in a breath and Harry holds his. 

“There is something you are keeping from me,” Harry’s father tells him. “There is a reason you want nothing to do with the girls on this ship. I thought maybe they were not good enough for you and for a moment I was proud that my son had it in him to be picky with his women. Just like I was.” Harry clenches his hands into fists without meaning to, his fingernails digging trenches in his palms. Harry is all right. He is. The sharp bites of pain in his hands help him focus on something besides the anger burning a hole in his chest. 

“You are not interested in women at all, are you Harry?” Desmond asks, and the focus goes away. “That is why I feel like I am losing you. It’s because I am.”

“What are you talking about?” Harry snaps. 

“The boy from third class,” Desmond sneers. “Is he who you are interested in? Honest to God, Harry, if your mother could see you now…”

“Don’t!” Harry says. 

“She would be so disappointed in you,” he finishes anyhow. 

“Just for one goddamn second,” Harry says despite himself, “I felt sorry for you. Don’t worry. I will not let it happen again.” He tries to brush past his father, to end this conversation before it can begin, but his father blocks his way. 

“If you leave me to see that boy, Harry, so help me God…” 

“What will you do?” Harry says. He stands almost chest to chest with his father, looking him hard in the eye. The older he has gotten, the more years he has gained, the harder it has become to look at his father. To look at the man who raised him in the eye. But he does it now, heart hammering so hard it could burst from his chest, and his father looks back. 

“I will disown you,” Desmond says. “I will not be able to look at you ever again, Harry, without remembering what you’ve done to me. What you have done to our family name.” 

The threat lands on Harry’s shoulders like rain and he shrugs it off. “So now that it matters it’s our name again?” Harry asks. “Not just yours? Wonderful. Now excuse me, Father. As much as you don’t want to look at me, I want to look at you half as much.” Shaking so hard he sees stars, Harry starts to walk. He does not stop when his father barks his name and he does not stop when he feels his father grab for him. He does not stop when his father hits him, a sharp blow to the back of the head. Harry ignores the cheap shot and shoves his hands in the pockets of his rumpled coat, walking with nowhere to go. 

“If you walk away now I have no son!” Desmond shouts. Harry freezes in the doorway of his room with his ears ringing, one foot out the door. He does not turn around. 

“I understand,” Harry says to the empty hall. “I have not had a father in years.” And just like that he walks away. He keeps his head down and this time his father does not call to him. This time his father lets him go. Harry stays composed, stays calm until he is far down the hall. It is not until he steps into the elevator at the far end of the hall that his breath hitches in his throat. The elevator attendant stands stoic in the corner and does nothing as Harry starts to cry. It’s small at first, breathy little hiccups, but by the time he hits the bottom floor it’s a full on storm. He swipes uselessly at his eyes with the back of his hand, using his sleeve as a handkerchief. When the elevator pings and the attendant goes for the door, Harry asks him to close it again. 

“I need a minute,” Harry chokes. “Just a minute, please take me back up.”

“Yes, sir,” the attendant says. Slowly the elevator creaks back into motion and Harry leans against the wall, one hand over his face. He has no reason to cry. He tells himself so over and over again but he can’t quite make himself stop. His nose runs and he sniffles hard, desperate to stem the flow of tears, but telling himself he is all right does nothing to help. “Sir,” the attendant says as they hit the first class deck with a ping. Harry peeks through his fingers at the man to find him holding out a crisp white handkerchief. 

“Thank you,” Harry says. The attendant waits politely as Harry blows his nose and flips the handkerchief over to use the other side to dab at both eyes. Embarrassed and tired, tired, tired, Harry sighs. 

“It is none of my business,” the attendant says, “but you are far too young to be crying like that. There is nothing in the world that should be weighing you down so.” 

“I suppose,” Harry replies so he does not have to tell the truth. The elevator begins to descend again, taking Harry and the attendant down to the bottom. Harry tells himself the hard feeling in the pit of his stomach is from the rocking motion in the elevator but even he is not that foolish. He burned a bridge back in his room; a bridge he should have committed to walking the rest of his life. Harry left his father behind looking after him in horror…and what for?

What the hell for?

Harry lingers in the elevator as in glides into place for so long the attendant clears his throat. “Would you like another ride to the top, sir?” the man asks. 

“No,” Harry says. “No, no. That’s all right.” He takes one step out into the hall and then another. Harry has no reason to be down here but here he is anyway with a handkerchief clutched in one hand. “Do you want this back?” he asks before the attendant can shut the door and shut him out. The man chuckles. 

“No, you keep it,” he says. “I hope you cheer up. This is the…”

“Ship of Dreams,” Harry says. “Believe me, I know.” He turns on his heels and walks away. Guilt eats at his chest, at his stomach, and he leaves the man behind with a smile falling from his kind face. Harry has a knack, it seems, for making smiles slip away. 

(There is one he can still save but it’s the last one he wants to see.)

Harry should not be down here but he always ends up just where he is not supposed to be. He wanders third class, half hoping a hand will reach out to yank him, laughing, into a bunk. The other half of him hopes his father finds him and chooses either to strangle or forgive him. At this point in time, with tears drying on his cheeks and his nose running like a faucet, Harry would be happy with either. Face after face passes Harry by and not one of them is a face he knows. It is better this way, he decides. Better he does not run into the person he wants to see. This way he will be able to think clearly, to make the right choice. To choose to be the person his father needs him to be. 

Before he can think too long and before he can will himself to disappear, Harry begins to wind his way upstairs. The first thing he must do is find his father and ask for forgiveness first and love second. A second chance may come after but Harry tries to force himself out of thinking too far ahead. If he can’t convince his father he has learned to live with the life he was given he can’t convince his father of anything. Even as he walks he rehearses stupid lines, silly things to enlarge his father’s head. It’s the only thing he can think to do. 

He will marry the next woman his father points his way. He will tell his father so; he will drop to his knees if he has to just to make his father believe him. He has been reckless with his (heart) future and selfish to a fault; his father raised him alone and Harry has done nothing to repay him. What is he doing down here, looking for a boy who has a lovely face and nothing else?

(The longer Harry walks alone lying to himself over and over the more he begins to half believe the lies.)

He is not alone for half as long as he likes. 

Halfway between third class and the upper deck the hand Harry has been waiting for with bated breath reaches out and drags him from the hall. 

“Harry,” Louis breathes. “God, I’ve been looking everywhere for you.” Louis looks Harry up and down, blue eyes hungry. Harry has the sudden urge to cover himself up so Louis can no longer see him. Instead he bows his head. “Hey, are you all right? Have you…oh no, Harry, have you been crying?”

“No,” Harry snaps. But he still has the damn handkerchief clutched in his fist and Louis sees it; Louis never misses a thing. 

“What is it?” Louis asks. “What has your father done to you now?” His eyes are all over Harry and they burn. Sunlight, bright yellow and too harsh, streams in to the tea room where Harry has ended up. The garish rays paint Louis gold and it makes him hard to look at, as bright as the sun itself. Harry has never made a worse mistake in his life than give his heart to Louis Tomlinson. “Have you gotten into a fight?” Louis asks. “What did he say to you to make you look like your heart is broken?”

“It is,” Harry barks before he can stop his tongue. Louis’ eyes narrow. 

“What has he done?” Louis asks. Like there is anything he can do; like this is anything but goodbye. Harry’s heart seizes at the thought but at least there is not much of it left to break. There is not much more loss it can go through. He has faced the worst of it, he thinks, but one brave glance into Louis’ face and he is not so sure. 

“I can’t see you,” Harry says. “I can’t.”

“I’m right here,” Louis says. 

“But I can’t be. I have to go.” Even as Harry says it, head down, Louis moves too fast for him. Louis leans one hand on the wall and presses the other to Harry’s shoulder, gentle, slow. Much gentler than his father. But he pins Harry to the wall and looks up into his face like he will find answers there. And maybe Louis is not the only one with a poker face to beat any other. Harry tries his best to keep anything from his face. To keep it empty. And whatever it is Louis hopes to find, he does not. 

“You’re going to die if you let them keep pinning you down,” Louis says, so soft Harry is sure he misheard him. “If you keep letting them treat you like a butterfly in a jar, you are going to die. I promise you that. Maybe not now because you’re strong, but God, don’t let them kill you.”

“Louis…” Harry pleads. 

“Come on, Harold,” Louis tries, pleading a little himself. It sounds dreadful in his voice, like it does not belong. The last thing Louis’ voice should be doing is tilting down, wilting like a dying flower. But Harry hears it. It bends until it breaks. And Harry breaks him more. 

“Stop fucking _calling_ me that,” Harry says. He surprises himself by cursing but Louis is unfazed, lips parted as he waits for Harry to finish. “That’s not my name. You know nothing about me nor I you. And I just can’t do this anymore. Please, let me go.” 

“No,” Louis says. “Because that’s horseshit. Complete and utter horseshit. You’re better than them, _Harold_ , so much better. And you don’t even see it. God, I made a promise on the back of that ship, that I wouldn’t leave you alone until I knew you’d be all right. And now? You won’t. You won’t be all right. Maybe in a year, Harry, maybe in five, the fire inside of you is going to go out. That goddamn fire I love about you is going to burn away and you’re going to die if you don’t stop it.” Louis looks at him with such urgency, such panic, and Harry has no idea what to do. No idea where to go, what to say, where to run. Because Louis loves something about Harry that is not there at all, something he sees that Harry does not have. 

“So be it,” Harry says. “I’m all right. And I really do need to go.” He tries to pull away, to get Louis’ hand off him. Louis does not let go. 

“Please,” Louis says. “Please, no. Listen to me.”

“I have,” Harry says. “And now I’m done.” 

“Harry, don’t do this,” Louis says. “God, you’re a menace. A goddamn menace, a spoiled fucking brat, even. But there’s something amazing inside of you. You’re the most beautiful, kindest, most spectacular person I have ever known and you don’t even see it.” His words fall on deaf ears. He is too intense, too bright, too real. And Harry can’t breathe. “Please don’t give in to them. You have so much more to give than a lifetime of sitting straight with your head up your ass.” 

“I don’t,” Harry says. “I don’t. Let me go.” He does not give Louis a choice. He pushes him back with both hands, as hard as he can, and as Louis stumbles backwards he gets his chance. Harry runs and he does not look back. The sun hangs high in the sky, hot over Harry’s head as he goes. Louis does not chase him. Louis does not call out to him. And for the second time today Harry feels tears pressing hot behind his eyes. 

This time is different. This time he does not let them fall. Who is he to cry, anyway? 

He has a lot more to give than wasted tears. 

 

Harry idles by the ship’s chapel as it empties. He stands far enough back to avoid being seen by the first class men as they pass him by. Not one person sees him, or if they do they pretend they do not. Harry likes being invisible here. Invisibility is the best defense he has. The only defense he has. 

He watches men and their wives trickle in and out of the chapel and away to the dining hall, to the top deck, to bed. It is not until he catches sight of a man and his young son that his eyes stop roving. He watches the man kneel before his son, the boy no older than five years old being told to hold his chin up, for Christ’s sake, he looks like a damn fool with his mouth hanging open. Harry grits his teeth as the little boy obeys his father, prim and proper like he is supposed to be. He clenches his jaw until it aches and it does nothing to ease the ache in his chest. 

“Don’t you want to impress people?” the father asks his little boy. Eager, the little boy nods. Like a toy, like a bouncing ball, and the man smiles. “That’s my boy,” he says. He fusses with the boy’s shirt, buttoning the buttons up to the top until the boy chokes. “Hush,” the man says. “Be still!” The boy obeys and stands as still as a statue and again, somehow, Harry’s heart breaks. 

He leans hard against the wall behind him and lets himself sink to the floor. The boy and his father walk away only to be replaced with more people who look exactly like them, who walk and talk and move the same as them. No one smiles and no one laughs and Harry does not belong here. He will never be able to be still, to shut up and sit down and shake hands over champagne and caviar. If one more time he has to bow his head and tell a stuffy old man who smells like cigar smoke it’s a pleasure to meet him he is…

Louis is right. He is going to die. 

Harry is on his feet so fast his head spins, with nothing in mind but getting out of here and setting everything right. He slams into a man and his wife, parting the two, their shouts following him down the stairs and down the hall. Harry bursts through a set of gilded gold glass doors and comes out the other side, dashing down a golden set of stairs. The farther down he goes the dingier the stairs get, gold replaced with dusty carpeting and stone. Harry brushes past person after person, man after man, not one of them the man he wants to see. There is only one name on his mind, playing over and over. 

Louis. Louis, Louis, Louis. 

He has to tell Louis he was right, he is so, so sorry. He has to make this okay. He has to find Louis and thank him until he can’t anymore; he has to give Louis everything he has and then he has to give him more. 

Harry skids to a stop outside of Louis’ door and smacks a fist into it with such force the door shakes. He hits it again, gasping for breath, and an agitated voice tells him to wait a goddamn minute. He waits. But the person who rips open the door is not Louis. It’s Liam.

“Hey,” Harry pants. “Liam, hi. Where is Louis?” Liam frowns as Harry pushes past him into the room, desperate to find Louis lounging in his bunk. He finds Niall instead, tossing a ball up and down to the ceiling and back into his cupped hand. 

“Oi, what’s the big emergency?” Liam asks as he follows Harry into the room. “He’s not here.”

“Well, where is he?” Harry demands. Liam pauses and crosses his arms over his chest. 

“Why should I tell you?” he asks. 

“Oh, just tell him,” Niall replies from the top bunk. 

“Shut up, Niall,” Liam shoots back. To Harry he says, “He stopped by a few minutes ago with the biggest woe-is-me frown on his face I’ve ever seen. What did you do to him?”

“Nothing,” Harry says. If he has to stand here another minute, heart winding its way up his throat, he is going to die. He is going to die and Louis was right about him and he will never get the chance to tell him. So he presses Liam as quickly as he can, one moment away from dropping to his knees and begging. “Please,” he says. “I need to see him. Tell me where I can find him.”

“He’s been through a lot worse than the likes of you,” Liam warns. He does not change his stand, the grimace on his face. “But I wouldn’t be surprised if he’s gone and let you break his heart.”

“Me?” Harry asks. “No, I didn’t break anything.”

“No? Go on then, go get him. He’s up at the front of the ship.” Harry moves to turn away, to run, but Liam grabs hold of his arm and pulls him back, dragging Harry to his burly chest. “Don’t hurt him anymore,” Liam says. 

“Stop bein’ so dramatic, Li,” Niall laughs, in a moment of distraction letting his rubber ball land sharply on his nose. “Ow, shit!” he says, and finally Liam eases up. 

“You stupid git,” he laughs, the moment broken between him and Harry. And to Harry he says, “Go on, then. Make sure to report back to me whether he was crying or not.”

“We have a bet!” Niall says, holding his nose between two fingers. 

“We do not,” Liam says. “We’re better friends than that.” He lets go of Harry and shouts, “Goodbye, you big dope!” after him as he dashes away. Harry takes the insult without fighting because he deserves it; he does. The bow of the ship might as well be on a different sea. The faster Harry runs the slower he seems to go, running up the stairs he just dashed down. People see him coming this time and more than once he hears shouting after him, angry passengers telling him to watch where the hell he’s going. 

That is the problem. He knows exactly where he is going and nothing is going to stop him from getting there. Harry bursts onto the top deck like a twister and nearly smashes face first into one of his father’s friends, a man whose name Harry does not know. 

“Hey!” the man shouts after him. But Harry does not stop. Nothing could stop him, be it a storm or a fire or the end of the world. The man calls after him again, fruitlessly, and Harry finally does something. He whirls around, slamming to a stop, and he tosses his middle finger up at the bewildered man. In the moment between the man recovering and the time it takes him to shout again, Harry makes his escape. No one else tries to stop him. No one else seems to even see him, the boy running to the front of the ship like his life depends on it. 

Maybe it does.

Harry sees Louis far before he is close enough to touch. As hard as it is to slow down, impossible, Harry does it. He needs a moment, two, more, to stay where he is and watch Louis breathe. Louis leans on the railings at the bow of the ship, his head down and his back hunched. His spine rises and falls with each breath he takes, slow and steady, not at all like a boy who’s had his break ripped in two. Then again, Harry has the feeling he, too, looks much the same as always. Like a boy on the verge of being more bad than good, more sad and alone than happy and warm. Louis has always been the antithesis of Harry, the other side of everything Harry has bursting inside of him. 

And everything Harry has always needed. 

Harry takes a step closer and then two. He watches Louis watch the sea, the Atlantic rolling away beneath them. He is too far away and he moves closer still, not yet close enough to reach for Louis’ hands. For his body, for his skin. So he moves closer. He reaches out, hands shaking. Louis looks small like this, staring at the sea, but he is not small at all. He is everything. He is the sun, the earth, the sky. All Harry can do it touch him and hope he is big enough for Louis to see him. 

Harry’s hand closes over Louis’ hip and Louis does not stir. Harry tightens his fingers over the soft curve of Louis’ hip. Digs his fingers in. “I changed my mind,” Harry says. “You were right; I changed my mind.” 

“Oh, Harry,” Louis says to the sea. He reaches down from the railing, his hand so small, his fingers meeting Harry’s on his hip. 

“Lou,” Harry says like he has said it a thousand times. Simply. Easy. 

“Come here,” Louis says. And Louis steps back. He guides Harry to the railing, to the ocean, and plants his feet behind Harry. “Get up on the railing,” he says. Soft as the sunset, soft as the light fading on the horizon. Harry obeys. He puts one foot and then the other up on the railing, a different person than the boy who did the same on the other side of the ship. Louis eases into place at Harry’s back like he belongs there. Like he knows where he fits, where he belongs. “Harry,” Louis breathes. “Harry, do you trust me?”

“I trust you,” Harry says. He clings to the pristine white railing, fingers tight, and Louis places his hands over Harry’s. 

“Then let go.” 

“Let go?!”

“Yes, honey,” Louis breathes. “Let go. I’ve got you. I promise.” Harsh words forgotten, Louis whispers sweetly in Harry’s ear. Harry shivers with it, with the sugar in Louis’ voice, and he obeys. He lets go. Instead of falling he leans on Louis, Louis’ body pressed to Harry’s back. “That’s it,” Louis coos. Slowly, Louis takes Harry’s hands in his, their fingers lacing up. Harry cranes his neck to look at Louis, to look into his blue, blue eyes, but Louis says, “No, don’t look at me. Look at her. Look at the sea.” Harry does. 

“Oh my God,” Harry says. “Lou, I’m flying!” And it’s true. It’s true. There is nothing between Harry and the rolling sea, nothing holding him back but a sure pair of hands smaller than his. 

“That’s right,” Louis says. “How does it feel to be on top of the world?” 

“Amazing,” Harry says. “It’s amazing.” The sun sets on the sea in spectacular shades of orange and pink and purple, the sea roaring up the meet the ship and the sun. Foam bites at the bow of the ship and Louis’ fingernails bite at the palms of Harry’s hands. 

And Harry is free. 

He cranes his neck again and this time Louis does not stop him. 

“Lou,” he says. 

“Yeah, Harry?” Louis asks. His devilish smile should be painted; it should hang in museum where no one can touch it or mar it or make it fall. Harry commits it to memory. The sharp shape of Louis’ jaw, the glimmering in his blue eyes, the way they crinkle up in the corners. When Louis opens his mouth to ask Harry what in the world he’s doing Harry tells the truth.

“Memorizing you,” he says. “For when I have to go back down there.”

“Who says you have to?” Louis replies. His face is so close to Harry’s, so close Harry can see the remnants of tears in his eyes, redness fading into white. And Harry wants to kiss it all away. It happens before Harry can think, before he can decide to turn away. He leans in and Louis closes the distance. The kiss is like nothing Harry has ever felt before, warm and sweet and soft. Louis does not kiss like he speaks, like a storm. Instead he kisses like sugar, like honey, his mouth so warm Harry could cry. The moment Louis begins to draw away, a laugh bubbling out of him, Harry surges forward again. Louis laughs into the kiss, a breathy, relieved sort of laugh. 

“I know,” Harry breathes against Louis’ mouth. Because he feels the same. With the Atlantic as their audience and the waves cheering them on, Harry and Louis share a kiss as wild and miraculous as the sea.


	6. We Go On and On and On

Harry feels he might be in love. He is dizzy with it, giddy, sick, every part of him on fire. The warmest part of him is the hand Louis clutches as he guides Harry across the top deck of the Titanic. 

“Where are we going?” Harry laughs, weightless but for Louis’ hand keeping him down. 

“Wherever you would like to go, darling!” Louis crows. He does not care if anyone hears him; he does not care if anyone tries to stop them as they run. Fearless, Louis leads Harry on across the ship. And Harry follows him. His cheeks ache just a bit, a smile on his face as he watches Louis’ disheveled hair bounce at the nape of his neck. He thinks of all the places they could be, all the things they could do. All the trouble they could get into, Harry’s beautiful boy and him, and this is the first time something so beautiful has been Harry’s at all. He thinks of the kisses, the looks, the touches he has fallen asleep craving. It is more than easy to tell Louis exactly where he wants to go. 

“Take me down below,” Harry says. “Somewhere…” His breath catches in his throat as Louis tosses a smile back his way, and Harry stammers when he speaks. “Somewhere we can be alone.” 

“I can do that,” Louis says. “Hey, no problem! I can do that!” He pulls Harry along and Harry follows and he would follow Louis anywhere, wouldn’t he, and is that a problem to solve? Harry stumbles before he can decide and he trips right into Louis’ arms, Louis laughing as his back slams into a wall. They share a kiss with Harry’s hands landing on Louis’ hips, fingers digging in. Louis tries to speak into it, to laugh, and Harry dives deeper. 

“Lou…” Harry says just to say it. 

“Harry,” Louis replies, just the same. He’s breathless, laughing giddily against Harry’s lips, mouth curving up into a smile. Harry feels the same. Weightless, like he could float away if he tried hard enough. There is nothing on this ship, nothing in this world Harry can feel beyond the pull of Louis’ lips. 

(Is this what love feels like or is Harry imagining things?)

“Lou,” Harry sighs. “Lou, kiss me.”

“What am I doing, huh?” Louis chuckles, breath warm on Harry’s face. “What do you call this, then?” His mouth leaves Harry’s, Harry’s lips falling open, and Louis presses hungry kisses to every bit of Harry he can reach. Harry is kissed in places he cannot remember ever being touched, Louis’ mouth hot on the underside of his chin, on his throat, at his ear. 

“Kiss me,” Harry says again. Just to say it. Just to hear it, the hunger in his voice nothing compared to the hunger of Louis’ searching mouth.

(What is it he’s looking for?)

“Kiss _me_ ,” Louis says, and that’s the spell broken. Harry surges forward and he obeys; he kisses Louis like he will never do anything else, like he was born to stand here under the crystal clear sky and kiss a beautiful boy with a beautiful heart. There is nothing around them but stars, nothing but the salt of the sea, until there is. 

“Oi!” a voice calls from up above. Harry moves so fast his chin collides with Louis’ nose, Louis crying out in pain, and Harry cranes his neck to see who it is yelling down at them. “Get a room!” the man up in the crow’s nest shouts down. He cups his hands around his mouth so Harry and Louis can hear, grinning as he chastises. 

“Or don’t!” his companion calls, the two men squashed into the tiny space up above the deck. “You two are the most excitement we’ve seen all night!”

“All week!” the first man agrees. And Louis, blushing, two fingers pinching the bridge of his nose, begins to laugh. Harry is too shocked, too scared to join in for a moment, the men capable of raising hell if they wanted to. They could have Harry hauled back to his father; they could shout and get the attention of anyone they pleased. But they laugh, Louis’ laughter bubbling up with theirs, and it only takes another beat for relief to hit Harry like a wave. 

“Let’s get out of here,” Louis says, tossing his free hand up at the men with one finger up in the air. “Somewhere no one can see.” Still laughing, still pinching his nose where Harry smacked it, Louis dashes away. All Harry can do is look away from the men, offer them a wave, and follow. 

“Where are we going?!” Harry asks. 

Laughing, gorgeous in the moonlight, Louis says, “To the end of the world! To a hole in the ground where…where no one can touch us; no one can shake their heads and tell us we’re wrong!” 

“You’re crazy!” Harry replies as Louis leads the way. They dash downstairs, through first class, passing people by like they are nothing but clouds. Wisps of air, smoke, nothing. Just how Harry would be if it were not for the fire taking him by the hand, catching him ablaze. 

“That might be true!” Louis crows. “It might be true, love, but I wouldn’t have it any other way!” Louis throws himself through a set of glass doors and Harry follows so close he steps on Louis’ dirty shoes. 

“Neither would I,” Harry says. Before Louis can take in a breath, before he can laugh again at the seriousness in Harry’s voice, Harry pushes him against the wall. It gets easier the more times he does it, pressing his lips to Louis’. And Louis tastes sweeter every time. Harry laces their hands up, every bit of him almost too hot, sweat clinging to the small of his back. Louis pants into Harry’s mouth, warm, warm, warm, and there are too many people here to be doing what they are doing. “Let’s go to my room,” Harry says. “Let’s go.” One look at the clock is all he needs; his father is nothing if not utterly predictable. They have time, all the time in the world, Desmond hiding away to smoke with his peers and friends for another hour at the least. 

“Harry, your…”

“Forget about him. Lou, please.” Harry kisses Louis with all the power he has in him, every ounce of ferocity he hid from his father. Louis’ knees quake for a moment, just a little moment, but Louis is his. Louis is Harry’s. 

“Yeah,” Louis says. “Yeah, fuck him. Let’s go.” Not one to let Harry lead him anywhere, not one to be dragged by the hand, Louis takes control. Harry lets him. Because it’s not with cruelty, not with the desire to make Harry feel small. It’s with hunger, enough of it to burn, and Harry takes in every bit. Harry and Louis make their way through first class, chins up in identical shows of defiance, of not caring, of not giving a damn who sees or who speaks or who gossips. 

(Harry is a good actor but he doubts Louis is fooled; his own knees nearly give way the closer they get to Harry’s room.)

“Which way?” Louis asks as they go. Harry directs him with one hand and clutches to Louis with the other. Harry’s room feels farther away than it ever has before, impossibly far. The distance between Harry and Louis is even farther, more than it should be. Too much. Harry does not know what he wants but as he watches Louis he starts to get an idea. 

(Harry should feel repulsed by the realization, the feeling in his stomach closer to lust than anything he has ever felt. His father would tell him he is wrong, he is beyond repair, but for once Harry can’t bring himself to care. He is not wrong and he is all right; he is allowed to want more than the girls and the money and the power his father dangles like jewels over his head. He is allowed to want touch; he is allowed to want a beautiful boy. He is allowed to want Louis.)

“Right here, Lou,” Harry says, shocked for a moment at the huskiness of his voice. 

(Not hollow anymore; thick like honey with want.)

Louis tests the golden doorknob and it twists easily enough. He pushes the door open, Harry on his heels, and four minutes later by the clock over the mantle Harry has Louis on his back. He pins Louis by his shoulders to a terrible maroon colored chaise lounge, Louis’ legs dangling over one side. Louis looks up at him, face open, lips parted. And Harry is starting to realize he might be even more lost than he thought. Because there is a thought playing in his head, the idea that Louis might be more than he seems. That Louis might not just be a boy, a lovely boy with a wide smile; he might be an angel. The only one Harry has ever met and the only one Harry has ever needed.

“What?” Louis asks, all pointed teeth. He smiles lazily up at Harry and before Harry can speak he reaches up to take hold of Harry’s hair. Louis wraps a loose curl around his fingers, his eyes all over Harry’s face, and when Harry can’t think of an answer to his question he asks it again.

“You’re just…” Harry says. 

“Oh?” Louis asks, coy. 

“Yes,” Harry says.

“Well, Harry, so are you.” Louis tugs at Harry’s hair and then lets him go, content to be pinned on his back. The yellow lights of the parlor cast much of Louis’ face in shadow, the stubble on his cheeks and the hollows of his cheekbones all Harry can see clearly. 

“Louis,” Harry asks, intending to ask a question. 

“Stop overthinking,” Louis replies. “It gets to the worst in you. Just be here with me. Yeah?” 

“But Louis…”

“Hush. You’re going to make yourself crazy questioning this.”

“Lou, what is it you see in me?” Harry asks anyway. Louis sits up so fast Harry almost falls off the chaise lounge, Louis catching him by the lapels of his jacket and pulling him back up. Harry sits, all long limbs and spinning head, in Louis’ lap like a cat. And Louis winds his arms around Harry, holding him where he sits, keeping him close. Despite the dim lights, this close Harry could count every one of Louis’ long eyelashes if he wanted. He can see the deepness to the color of Louis’ eyes, not as blue as Harry first thought. There is green in there, aquamarine, just like the sea. Just like every other part of him Louis’ eyes are multifaceted, more than the sum of their parts. 

If Harry’s head would stop spinning just for a damn second he might be able to tell Louis so. 

“Harry,” Louis says. He says nothing else for a while; all he does is look at Harry like he has never seen him before. His eyes explore Harry’s face and his hands, Harry’s spine. Harry feels electric. “You’re beautiful,” Louis says. “You’re so beautiful.” Louis leans in close to kiss Harry’s cheek, his forehead, his eyes. Harry lets him. “So, so beautiful.” Louis coos, the sweetest voice Harry has ever heard, and there is no longer any doubt in his mind. Louis is an angel. Harry’s angel. Louis ducks his head under Harry’s chin to press a kiss to the hollow of his throat, humming gently as he goes. He leaves heat on Harry’s skin, his fingers opening and closing on the notches of Harry’s spine. His back hunched, body open, Harry gives himself over to Louis as best he can. 

“Do you want to know what I see?” A gentle press on Harry’s collar bone. “When I look at you?”

“What?”

“I see a boy who has no idea what he wants. Who he wants to be and where he wants to go or much of anything.”

“But?” Harry asks, certain there is a _but_. Why would Louis be here if there was not?

“But despite your best efforts,” Louis says, and Harry can feel the smile on his face as Louis buries his nose in Harry’s chest, “you want me. And I think that says a lot about you.” 

“What…what does it say, then?” Harry tries and fails to keep from stammering as Louis slips his hands under Harry’s jacket. 

(His hands are so warm and so are his lips.)

“It says there might be some hope for you, after all,” Louis laughs. “That you’re not just some rich asshole with more money than brains and more coldness than heart. You’re nothing at all like…” He pauses, lips at Harry’s ear, but he gets the message just the same. 

“Not like the rest of them,” Harry breathes. “Not like my father.”

“No,” Louis says. “You were never like them. And I have been thanking God for that since the moment I met you.” Harry laughs next, a hollow sort of sound, the thought getting caught in his throat on the way out. “What?” Louis asks. “Don’t believe me?” 

“No,” Harry says. “No, I do. I just…” 

“Can I give you some advice?”

“Yes.”

“Take my advice for once. Stop thinking.” He gives Harry a squeeze, a kiss, and a smile, and Harry tries. He tries. 

 

Twenty minutes later Harry lounges alone, the door locked against anyone but Louis, shivering in the parlor. Louis has gone back to his room to get something and Harry waits for him, lying on his back in a silk robe the color of a peach. Harry is nothing if not stubborn, if not (he is still learning) romantic to a fault, and the moment the idea crossed his mind Louis was already gone. Harry tries to be still, to still the racing of his heart, but it hammers like it intends to burst from his chest. Harry would not be surprised. 

Louis is an artist, after all, and shouldn’t he more than anyone be able to show Harry exactly what he sees?

It was easy to change out of his stiff clothes and slip into a robe; it was harder to sit and wait for Louis to return. Harry can hardly breathe, never mind lie still, and he counts the roses on the damask wallpaper as he waits. There are fifty-seven before Harry loses count and curses under his breath only to start the count over again. There are seventy-two, and then twenty-nine, and Harry wants nothing more than to touch Louis everywhere he can. He hates waiting, counting and waiting and counting again, and has half a mind to get dressed again and chase after Louis. He misses Louis’ skin, the heat of Louis’ hands, like they were his for more than half an hour. For more than a day. 

Before Harry can go mad there is a knock at the parlor door, the three short raps he and Louis agreed on. They share more than a few secrets, Harry and his boy, and he beams as he crosses the parlor to let Louis inside. 

“You made it back,” he says. Louis slips into the parlor and Harry sticks his head out into the hall, looking for a shadow, a swish of coattails, for any sign of life at all. Satisfied when he is met with an empty, pristine hall, Harry closes the door and locks it. 

“Of course I made it back,” Louis says. “Where else would I have gone?”

“The monsters could have gotten you,” Harry tries to say, but he turns to face Louis and all thoughts are lost. Louis looks at Harry, open mouthed and still. He clutches his sketchbook to his chest, eyes wide, and he lets one word slip from him. 

“Wow,” Louis says. 

“What?” Harry asks, playing coy as he sinks back onto the chaise lounge. “Have you never seen a boy wearing so little so close?” 

Louis swallows hard. “No,” he croaks. “I haven’t.” Harry stops messing with the tie to his robe, flicking his eyes up to meet Louis’. 

“Never?”

“No.”

“Have you ever…”

“No.”

“With anyone?” Louis pauses, eyes leaving Harry’s to examine the floor. 

“I’ve seen girls,” Louis says. “Plenty of them. I mean, just look…” He opens up his sketchbook, flicks through the pages with his tongue between his teeth, and he takes a timid step closer to Harry to show him a charcoal drawing. The page is full of sketches of girls, naked girls, girls with their bodies half drawn. Harry takes the book from Louis’ hands (he chooses to believe he imagines the tremor in Louis’ fingertips) and runs his fingers over the page. Over the girls, graceful even in stillness with the life Louis’ hand had given them. “Just…” Louis says, “never boys. Never…never someone as lovely as you.”

“Oh, stop,” Harry says, half teasing, half curious, passing the book back into Louis’ waiting hands. “What about her?” He points to one of the girls, a girl bent at the waist to lace up ballerina slippers. 

“She was beautiful,” Louis admits. “Maybe the prettiest girl in Paris. But still.”

“Still?” Harry cranes his neck to a painful angle so he can look Louis in the eye, Louis’ attention on his sketches for the moment.

“Still, I don’t tend to lie,” Louis says. “I’ve always been a shit liar. How can I make you believe you’re the most beautiful thing I have ever seen?”

For once Harry has an answer to one of Louis’ questions. “Draw me,” he says. “Draw me like one of your French girls.” 

And Louis does.

Louis sets his sketchbook down on the floor and by the time he straightens up Harry has his robe untied and half off, draped across his shoulders. Wildly, Louis blushes. His cheeks pink and his fingers shaky, he stammers something too quiet to hear and looks down at his feet.

“Now, Mr. Tomlinson,” Harry says, surprised both by his ability to speak and his boldness. Because truth be told, he barely contains a tremor himself. His heart flutters like a mouse’s, more of a hum than a thump. If he let himself he could lose his balance, his knees betraying him. But he can feign coyness as well as anyone. He could charm anyone he wanted to; even his damn father admitted so. 

“What?” Louis asks the hardwood floor. 

“If I am to be paying you for your services, I will not have you blushing in my very presence.” He puts on a voice, higher than his own, that makes Louis chuckle. A little bit of the tension leaves his shoulders and Harry leans in to press a dime into Louis’ hand. “You must tell me now if you will not be able to control yourself during our session. There are many people aboard this ship, after all, who would more than likely die for the chance to see what you are…” Instead of listening to Harry babble on and on Louis surges forward. He catches Harry’s lips, hard, and dips him so close to the floor Harry’s head spins. 

“What were you saying?” Louis asks. And just as he intends, Harry can’t quite remember.

“Unimportant,” Harry breathes. 

“So may we carry on?” Louis laughs. Harry thinks on it for a moment. The blush high on Louis’ cheeks make him prettier by far; the light in his eyes even more. Harry wants to hurry all at once, to watch Louis create and then watch him come undone. 

But he can wait. He has been waiting for seventeen years for someone like Louis to come along, after all. 

“Yes,” Harry says. “Yes, we may.” He straightens up and Louis takes a step back. It only takes a shrug of his shoulders for his robe to drop to the floor, leaving Harry naked. He stands perfectly still, waiting without breathing for Louis to speak, just because their time together has taught Harry that he will. And Louis does.

“Wow,” he says for the second time tonight. The lower his eyes go the wider they grow, and without meaning to Harry begins to beam. 

“Can you make something good out of me?” he asks. As nonsensical as the question is Louis nods. 

“Yes,” he breathes. Again he swallows hard. “Yeah, I can.” 

He lays Harry out on the chaise lounge, his tongue still poked out between his sharp teeth as he arranges Harry’s limbs. “No,” he says, Harry’s hand in both of his. “Put this one close to your face. Yeah, just like that. Hold it there.” 

“Such a serious _artiste_ ,” Harry teases. 

“Don’t make fun of the _artiste_ or you’ll get an unflattering portrait, Harry Styles,” Louis replies. He sits down in a rickety wooden chair a few feet from Harry, crossing his legs at the knee to balance his sketchbook. “Just because you’re beautiful it doesn’t mean I can’t make you look however I want.”

“I’m sorry,” Harry says. He struggles to keep from laughing just as much as he struggles to keep still. Louis surveys him, the tip of his charcoal pressed to a blank page. “What are you looking for?”

“A good starting place,” Louis says. “You have so many pretty pieces I don’t know where to start.” 

“And what is your favorite, Mr. Tomlinson?” Harry asks. 

(Who is this person who speaks so freely? Who does not flinch away from teasing, from flirting, even? Harry hardly recognizes himself even as he hears his own voice.)

“Um,” Louis replies. Instead of coming up with something he begins to draw. He draws with ease, grace, the tension leaving his face the longer his charcoal touches the paper. Harry tries to be still, he tries his best, but Louis chastises him more than once. “Be still, honey,” he says, and being called something so sweet is enough to make Harry listen. “Good,” Louis coos. “That’s my sweet boy.” The more sweet nothings he sends Harry’s way the more at ease Harry feels; by the time Louis takes a break and gives his hand a shake Harry feels he could fall asleep. 

“Can I say something without you teasing?” Louis asks. 

“No promises,” Harry purrs. 

“I’ll risk it, then,” Louis says, taking charcoal to paper. “You’re a work of art yourself, love,” he says. “Like a painting. Like a classic. I imagine they’ll hang paintings of you in the Louvre for the whole world to admire.”

“Oh, stop,” Harry says for the second time. He rolls his eyes and Louis tells him to cut it out and stop distracting him, but the smile on his face tells Harry he does not really mind. 

“I’m almost done,” Louis says. “If you would stop squirming so much I would finish faster…”

“Who said I want you to finish faster?” Harry says. “The longer you have to sit there staring at me the better.”

“Oh?”

“Yes. You have to learn to appreciate the art before you can touch it.”

“Ah,” Louis says, eyebrows arching up. “So this is a different type of museum. One where I am allowed to touch.”

“If you treat it well,” Harry says. And as much as Louis has Harry, as much as Harry is his…Harry has Louis, too. The feeling is something so new, so warm, Harry has no idea what to do with it except to bask. So he lets Louis draw, slow, and draws the moments out as long as he can. “Are you sure you are getting my curls just right?” Harry asks. “I want you to get each and every one of them in the perfect light.” 

“Easy, Harold,” Louis says. “Or I might draw you with no hair at all.” 

“Ha!” Harry barks. “An artist and a wordsmith.” 

“Whatever you say, love,” Louis says. “You’re the one paying me; I’m just the dancing monkey. Hold on, I’ll be done in one second.” 

“Don’t rush on my account,” Harry says. And Louis cracks a grin, uncrosses his legs, and with a flourish he signs his name in the corner of his drawing. “Are you finished?” Harry asks. 

“Think so,” Louis beams. 

“Can I see?” Harry sits up, head spinning from the motion. Goose bumps fly up his skin as he moves to stand (he has the feeling they have nothing to do with being cold and being naked). 

“No!” Louis says. He presses the sketchbook to his chest, protecting it, and Harry scoops up his robe in both hands. “So quick to cover up?” Louis asks as Harry slips it on. 

“Only a bit,” Harry replies. He leaves the robe hanging open, revealing a pale slice of skin from his sternum to his thighs. Louis watches the space as Harry takes his time, walking slow to put on a show. He licks his lips like he has no idea he does it, and Harry takes advantage of his distraction to slip the sketchbook from his limp fingers. 

And the boy in the drawing is more perfect than Harry could have imagined. 

The drawing is of Harry, there is no mistake, but it’s a different version of him. It is a Harry without a care in the world; a Harry far more ethereal and dreamlike than he. This Harry has no worry in his face, no tension in his body, and Harry trails his fingers over the blank and lineless parts of him. Here Harry looks twice as lovely as Louis said, naked and open and unafraid. 

(Could this truly be what Louis sees?)

“What do you think?” Louis asks as Harry’s fingers find Louis’ scrawled signature in the corner of the page. 

Harry tries to speak but it comes out a whisper. “Amazing,” he says. “Thank you, Lou.” In reply Louis leans back in his chair, arms behind his head, and lets out a low whistle. 

“Good,” he says after a long moment. “Only the best for my paying…” Harry cuts him off with a kiss. He pulls away and Louis tries to say something, a chuckle bubbling out of him, and Harry kisses him again. Just because he can. He clutches the drawing to his chest, intent on keeping it as long as he lives, longer. When he feels afraid he can pull it out, dust it off, and remember how powerful he feels right now. How weightless he feels, both hands cupping Louis’ cheeks, his mouth urging Louis’ open. 

Never did he see himself kissing somebody like this, so desperately. But with every bit of desperation Harry puts into the kiss, Louis returns it. At some point the sketchbook hits the floor with a heavy thunk; Harry ignores it to crawl, shaking and cold, into Louis’ lap. 

“You all right?” Louis asks. Harry nods, dipping his head to press his forehead to Louis’. 

“I’m fine,” Harry replies. “You?”

“Fine,” Louis says, voice husky. “You’re…you’re shivering.” His eyes travel down from Harry’s face, down his throat, down to his bare chest. He swallows. “You should…I dunno. You should get warm.”

“I’m trying,” Harry says. And as he moves closer, hands carding through Louis’ hair, so much softer than he imagined, the parlor door begins to shake. The doorknob twists, sending Harry’s heart leaping up into his throat. When the person on the other side of the door realizes it’s locked, they knock. Once, twice, and then one of Desmond’s men calls Harry’s name. 

“Harry? Are you in there?” 

Before Harry can think he is back in his pants, in his crisp white shirt, in his jacket. Louis almost laughs despite the worry lining his face, his lips quirking up just enough to make Harry burst into real laughter. “It’s okay, it’s okay,” Harry breathes, using Louis’ shoulder for balance to slip into his shoes. 

“I can hear you,” the man says, the nameless man Harry could not care less about if he tried. “I have a key, Harry.”

“Use it!” Harry taunts, adrenaline making him careless. “Use it!” He takes Louis’ hand, Louis using his free hand to cover his mouth as breathy little laughs escape him. And as the door begins to open Harry and Louis run. They dart across the parlor and burst through the other side, falling headlong into the hallway. They tumble into each other, landing on their asses, and as the man who looks for them makes his way through the parlor they struggle to untangle their limbs. Harry’s shirt is hanging half open and Louis is utterly breathless and Harry has never, ever been more excited. 

“Go, go, go!” Harry says. He yanks Louis to his feet just in time to see a red faced man chasing after them, eyes blazing. They are nothing compared to the fire Harry is going to see later in his father’s eyes but he almost lets them frighten him just the same. Harry pulls Louis away as fast as he can and before he knows it they are on the run. They dash through the white halls, down the stairs, past the elevators, and down, down, down. They see less people the farther down they go but the man who follows is close behind. Harry can hear the pounding of his squeaky black shoes, just the same as Harry’s. He slips and slides across the floor and Louis laughs like a loon, laughing so hard he makes soft wheezing noises in Harry’s ear. “I know!” Harry says. Because he knows, he does, the euphoria blazing through him just the same. 

“This is…!” Louis chokes, unable to finish as they slam into a wall and keep going.

“I know!” Harry says again anyway. Harry does not hesitate when they reach the end of the line; he leads Louis down into the engine room like they belong.

“Hey!” a sweaty faced man shouts after them. “You can’t be in here! It isn’t safe!” The heat from an endless row of fires follows Harry as he runs, the boy he loves in tow. Harry can feel sweat on his face, down his back, on his throat. Louis’ hand is slick in his and he holds on for dear life. Miraculously, before they can burn away, Harry and Louis burst from the fires of Hell and into the storage room. They keep running for a moment, momentum keeping them going, and they collapse together against the side of a pristine Model T. 

“Harry,” Louis says, and then he says it again. “Harry, Harry.”

“I know,” he says. They have lost the man for the moment and Harry doubles back anyway, just to shove a heavy leather chair against the storage room door. Just to give them time if they need it, protection from anyone who might try to burst into this little world. And Louis’ cheeks are red again, his blue eyes bright, and Harry kisses him. He kisses him below each eye and then he kisses him again as hard as he can. “Take me for a drive, Mr. Tomlinson,” Harry believes. “I have somewhere I need to go.” 

A moment later Louis sits in the driver’s seat of the shining black car, twisting the steering wheel this way and that. Harry sits on his hands in the backseat and leans forward until his chin lands on Louis’ shoulder. 

“Where is it you want to go?” Louis asks. Harry moves fast and then he moves slow, taking Louis by the shoulders with both hands. He leans so close to his ear Louis shivers, set into motion by Harry’s words. 

“To the stars,” Harry breathes, and that is all the talking they do for a while. Harry pulls Louis into the backseat and Louis pulls off Harry’s clothes and they share the small space for as long as they can. They breathe together, move together, and Harry frees Louis from his shirt, from his pants, just as much as Louis frees Harry from his worry, his fear. There is a simple motion here; there is the heat of Louis’ skin and there is the taste of Louis’ tongue. Louis has sure hands, soft hands, hands Harry trusts. The two of them do not speak as they move, Harry unsure he could even if he wanted. His fingers flex on Louis’ shoulders and his teeth dig into Louis’ skin in every place he can reach. Louis is graceful, Louis is gentle, and Harry wants with all his heart to cry Louis’ name. 

What comes out of him instead sounds much closer to a hum, to a whimper, to a moan. Louis echoes him, Louis completes him, and when it is all over Harry marvels at the handprint he left of the window of the car. He lies still, Louis breathing heavy and curled up to his chest. Harry lets his eyes wander more than his mind, to the steamed up windows and to Louis’ hair stuck with sweat to his face. He cradles Louis to his chest as the two of them come down, breathing each other’s air and sharing each other’s space. It isn’t until Harry’s heart begins to slow he realizes how hard Louis shakes. 

“You’re trembling,” Harry breathes, lips on Louis’ sweat salted skin. 

“Don’t worry about me,” Louis replies. “I’ll be all right.” Harry believes him. The air is thick, almost thick enough to choke on as Louis breathes in and out in Harry’s arms. Their chests stick together as they move, breathless, and every now and then one of them moves a sharp elbow and the other offers up a laugh. The room is cold, icy, even, but Harry is warm. Warm, warm, warm, too warm possibly to ever move again. As Louis begins to doze Harry contemplates the option. He could lie here and let Louis sleep until morning. What would be the harm in that? So his father would find him missing. So his father would raise hell. Who the hell cares?

Harry hardly believes himself when he decides he does not. 

He doesn’t care. He doesn’t give a damn what his father thinks. All he cares about is nuzzling into the softness of Louis’ hair, one hand on the back of Louis’ neck and the other dancing along his spine.

He would happily lie here until the ship docked, until the end of time. But there is someone coming, more than one someone, and Harry nudges Louis back to life. 

“Honey,” he breathes. He can call Louis whatever he pleases; no one is here to stop him and tell him the things he feels are wrong. “Hey, wake up. Someone’s down here. We have to go.” Louis is up in a flash, his hair a mess, his cheeks red. Harry and Louis help each other back into their clothes, losing time diving back in to give each other sloppy kisses on exposed chests and throats. They switch underwear by mistake, laughing so hard they can’t see, and they leave it as it is. Because the footsteps get closer, flashlight beams bouncing on the floor. They have to get out of here before they get caught. 

On the run again, laughing until they can’t catch their breath, Harry and Louis dive out of the car and out of the storage compartment just in time. Through the window in the door they watch four of Desmond’s aides sweep through the room. They turn like one person to look across the room, to look towards Harry, and Harry ducks away from the window. 

“Go!” he says. “Go, go, go!” And just like that, just like running is what they were born to do, they run. This time they go up, up and up and up, towards the light of the moon. Towards the stars. 

(“To the stars,” Harry said, and he meant it.)

They hit a wall and bounce off and if Louis was laughing any harder he would choke on it. He wheezes, little high pitched noises coming from him, and Harry loves him. He loves him, he loves him. And he is going to tell Louis, he is, but they step out into the moonlight and Louis sweeps Harry into his arms. Louis spins him across the top deck, twirling Harry in a circle with one hand. 

“Did you see them?” Louis laughs, dragging Harry from his dance back into his arms. “Did you see their faces?”

“I did,” Harry replies. Louis looks up at him looking so happy he could burst, he could cry, he could sing. Harry feels the same. “Lou,” Harry says. Just because he can. “Lou, when we arrive in New York I want to get off the ship with you.”

Louis pauses. “What?”

“If you’ll have me. I want to go with you.” He says it before he can get tongue tied; he puts it out there before he can do something stupid like change his mind. And the smile that crosses Louis’ face outshines the moon and every star. 

“This is crazy!” Louis beams, his hands landing light on Harry’s hips. 

“I know!” Harry replies. It is. It is. But that is why he trusts it. He drags Louis into his arms, into his chest, and Louis buries his nose in the fabric of Harry’s half unbuttoned shirt. He waits to tell Louis he loves him. He can wait a little while longer. 

Harry is going to disembark this ship on Louis’ arm, after all. All the time in the world and more is his. Is theirs. For the moment, for the night, the world belongs to them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you choose to pretend the story ends here, go on. I would advise it. From here on out, things only get sadder. 
> 
> Anyway, as ever, you can contact me at ourl0veisgod on tumblr with any comments, questions, or concerns! All the love.


	7. Hum Through the Hours of Dying

Up on the top deck of the Titanic the April air is chilled. Harry should be shivering against the cold. But with Louis under one arm he is nothing but warm. The two of them, Harry and his boy, watch the stars as they go by. They watch the ship carve a path through blocks of ice, the Atlantic unforgiving even in the midst of spring. Bits and pieces of ice scrape and bounce against the bottom of the ship, cast aside in its wake. Nothing can fight against the ship, too big by far to be stopped. 

Until it is. 

From behind him Harry hears the loudest noise he has ever heard, a noise unlike anything he has ever heard before. It’s incredible, like fingernails on a chalkboard multiplied until it can’t be anymore. The noise is of shredding metal, the scream of the ship howling in protest. 

“What the hell is that?” Louis asks. And before he can think, Harry is off. He crosses the ship in long strides, Louis on his heels. He looks around wildly for anything strange, for the source of the sound, and as he slams into the rails on the opposite side of the ship he sees it. The Titanic has hit an iceberg and the impact has not ended yet. The ship scrapes and screeches along an endless mountain of ice, a mountain taller than Harry can see. And as Louis slams into the railings at Harry’s side they watch the ice slice through the ship like it was made of paper. 

“Holy _shit_ ,” Louis breathes. If Harry could breathe at all he would say the exact same thing. But as the ship scratches and creaks along the side of the massive iceberg, pieces of ice begin to fall. As first they fall like snow, like sleet, but Louis shoves Harry hard just in time to watch a piece of ice the size of a table smash like glass at their feet. “Go!” Louis shouts. Harry does not need to be told twice. Skittering and sliding, Harry lunges for Louis. Their hands meet, clumsy and then sure, and they run. The ship screams like a banshee into the night (how long can the sound go on before there is nothing more of the ship to scrape away?) and Harry and Louis run back the way they came. Voices come from every angle, the men in the crow’s nest shouting to one another and the few people on the deck taking notice of the chaos. 

“Down!” Louis shouts, and Harry dives down to his knees as a splintered shard of ice soars over his head. Louis tumbles to the floor at Harry’s side and the ice shatters on the deck, Louis’ mouth falling open in horror. 

“Lou…” Harry says. He can’t get up; he can’t make his legs obey him. Instead he crawls on his hands and knees, losing his grip on Louis’ fingers to turn around and look up. And what he sees is the iceberg looming overhead. He and Louis sit at the base of a mountain, a tidal wave, a tornado. All Harry knows is there is nothing good about this, nothing safe and nothing all right. Finally the scraping stops. The screaming of metal on ice ends, the night goes quiet, and slowly, like it never happened at all, the iceberg begins to fade into the darkness of the Atlantic. But Harry narrows his eyes for a better look at the massive mountain of ice as it disappears and the sight sends his heart up into his throat. 

“Lou…” Harry says again, and this time Louis replies.

“I know,” he says. But Harry says it anyhow. 

“Lou, there’s steel on that iceberg.”

“I see it,” Louis breathes. He finds Harry’s hand, the two of them tangling their fingers up together on the floor, and people begin to stream from the lower decks like ants from a flooding anthill. Harry swallows hard to swallow down the thought and tears his eyes from the ghostly white garishness of the iceberg. 

“Lou, are we all right?” Harry asks. He knows they are not; he knows. But still he looks to Louis for help, hoping Louis will be hopeful. Louis looks anything but. He is pale in the moonlight as he locks eyes with Harry, his mouth open like he can’t quite find his tongue. 

“I dunno,” Louis says. 

“Lou…”

“I don’t know!” Louis cries. “I’m sorry, Harry, but I don’t know.” He drops his forehead to Harry’s shoulder, speaking to the ice-slick floor. “I wish I could comfort you right now; I wish it more than anything. But I can’t.” 

“It’s all right,” Harry says. If Louis can’t offer comfort, someone has to try. Louis trembles against Harry’s side and it is about time Harry offers something. “Hey, look,” Harry says. He jostles Louis to make him look up, to look at the young boys playing kickball with a block of ice. “They don’t seem so concerned, Lou, now do they?” 

Louis watches them for a moment, the two boys shouting with glee as they wrestle the ice from one another. “No,” he says. “But I think it’s rats who can sense danger, not children.” Harry begins to laugh, shaky at first, but when Louis joins him it grows stronger. He feels lightheaded with it, giddy as the iceberg grows dimmer and dimmer until it is gone. 

Just as if the damage never happened. Like the sound of ghosts, of metal on ice, was just a dream. Harry looks at Louis, glowing like a star, and he can believe it. 

“Forget the ship,” Harry says. “You look like you have seen a ghost. Are _you_ all right?”

“Fine,” Louis says. He grimaces as he moves, wavering as he stands. Louis extends one slender hand out to Harry and lifts him to his feet, the two of them stretching out their sore limbs. “Oh, Harold, you have…” Louis reaches up with gentle fingers to pick ice from Harry’s curls. “You’re a snow angel, Harry,” he says. 

“Oh, stop,” Harry replies, but Louis never stops. He keeps going, always moving, and that is why Harry loves him. Louis keeps him moving when all he can do is stand still. Harry is finally ready to say it, to say it all, but a voice coming from behind gives him pause. 

“I tried to turn but we were too close,” a pale faced man says. Harry watches the man pass him by, followed by the ship’s captain and the men from the crow’s nest. The captain is not someone Harry has spoken to before but someone he has spent more than a few dinners sitting close to. He looks nothing like the man Harry has seen down below; his face is tight and his eyes narrowed to slits. 

“Get the men down below,” the captain says. Harry strains to hear as the men walk away, down the stairs of the top deck towards the front of the ship. “Tell them to rouse every man, woman and child aboard, no questions…” Out of earshot, the men speak with their heads close together. The fear Louis eased from Harry’s mind is back as quickly as it vanished, his heart back up in his throat. 

“This is bad, isn’t it?” Louis asks at Harry’s side. 

“I think so,” Harry replies. On the top deck where no one is yet alarmed it is easy to pretend nothing is wrong. But already Harry can see confused and sleepy passengers rubbing their eyes, seeking out information, looking for confirmation everything is going to be all right. Already Harry can hear the people down below shouting at one another, panic in their voices as they are ripped from sleep. Up here there might not be much fear but there is something Harry can’t forget. His father is down below and his father is in danger. “We have to tell my father,” Harry says, so quiet Louis asks him to repeat himself. “He is not going to take this seriously. I have to go to him. I need to go now.” The moment he turns away from Louis to dart across the deck Louis pulls him back. 

“Are you sure you want to see him?” Louis asks. And Harry has not forgotten what his father has done wrong by him on this ship. Not by far. But Harry is all his father has, isn’t he? And what kind of son would let his own father go down with a sinking ship without doing everything in his power to stop it? Harry tells Louis as much, stammering and tongue tied over his words, but Louis gets the message. 

“I’m sorry,” Louis says just to stop Harry from getting hysterical. He hears the upturn in his own voice, rising as fear gets the better of him for a moment. He swallows it down and Louis says, “I’m sorry, yeah?” to get him going again. 

“It’s okay,” Harry says, and to reassure himself he says it again. “It’s okay. Let’s go.”

Down below the staff of the ship dash about, their mouths tight and voices terse as they pass life jackets into the hands of protesting passengers. 

“But it’s freezing outside!” one woman complains, trying her best to refuse a life vest. “Surely they don’t expect us to go out in the cold just as a precaution!” 

“I’m sorry, ma’am,” a man in a crisp white shirt tells her. “Captain’s orders, I’m afraid. It would be best just to make your way to the upper deck until…” Harry and Louis dash past them too fast to hear the tail end of the conversation, but even after the man’s persuading the women turns her nose up at him. 

“This is mad,” Louis says. They twist and turn through the crowd, the first class decks far fuller than Harry has ever seen them. The longer Harry and Louis scan the crowd the worse the situation appears to be; the staff has dragged every passenger on board out of bed. They wrestle children into life vests and urge women to dress warm; Harry collides with a doorframe trying to listen to a man ordering his wife into his coat. 

“But what about you?” she asks, all but shrieking in fear. 

“Don’t worry about me,” the man says. “They’re getting the lifeboats ready up there and you need to be on one of them…”

“Shit!” Harry cries, Louis echoing his shout of pain as Harry bounces off a glass door and yanks Louis back. “Sorry,” he says. “Go, go!” The grimmer the staff look the more frightened Harry becomes; he needs to get to his father and he needs to get off this ship no matter what he has to do. He has to get off the ship and he needs to do it with Louis at his side. Nothing else matters. All Harry thinks as he marches towards his room is the hole in his chest, the throbbing hole where all he feels is panic. 

(He can’t get pulled from Louis now, not now. Not after all it took to get here, to grow warm, to feel safe.)

Harry and Louis make their way through first class as fast as they escaped it hours ago. With one fist Harry pounds at the door to his parlor and without pause he presses it open. He and Louis spill into the room together, hands clasped, and come face to face with Desmond. 

“Father!” Harry cries. He tries to keep the hitch from his voice, he truly does. But it hitches anyhow, like a hiccup, pitiful and small, and his father has already made his mind up not to listen. He bristles without allowing Harry to speak. 

“There you are, Harry,” his father says. His eyes slide down to Harry’s hand, tangled up with Louis’, and they dart up again. Desmond barks across the parlor, two words to the men Harry and Louis lost down in the cargo hold. “He’s here,” Desmond says. The men emerge from the shadows like shadows themselves, leering at Harry as if they have finally found their prize. Harry supposes they have. Louis hovers just behind Harry for a beat, his breath hot on the back of Harry’s neck. But as Harry waits for his father to speak, to shout, to strangle Harry with his bare hands, Louis takes one step around him. Just like that he stands like a statue in perfect stillness between Harry and his father. 

And just as ever, Desmond pretends he sees nothing at all. 

“Where have you been?” Desmond finally asks. 

“As far away from you as I could get, I suppose,” Harry replies. 

“I see you were in the room before vanishing,” Desmond says. To Harry’s horror he scoops Louis’ sketchbook off the table at his side, dropping it on the floor. Harry watches it go, falling open to the most recent drawing. Given the Harry staring up at him from the floor, the living, breathing version of Harry feels remarkably calm. 

“Yes,” Harry says. “We were.”

“Interesting,” Desmond says. “Because you see, there might just be something missing from this room. Something that belongs to me. And it would be a shame if I suspected someone in this room of stealing it.” His eyes flash at Harry and the heat of calmness fades away. 

“What are you trying to say, Father?” Harry asks. “Are you accusing me of stealing from you?” 

“No!” Desmond chuckles. “No, no. What kind of father would suspect his own son over the third class miscreant who has spent the better part of this trip convincing you he is anything but?” Harry realizes too late his father’s men loom closer. By the time he cries out, whirling to face Louis, the men have Louis by both elbows. 

“Hey!” Louis cries. “What the hell are you doing?” 

“Believe it or not,” Desmond says as horror lands on Harry’s shoulders like drops of rain, “there is not one person on this ship who would believe you over me. If I were to tell the captain, let’s say, you stole something very important from me, what do you think would happen to you?” 

“I didn’t take anything from you and it wouldn’t take an idiot to see through your phoniness,” Louis says, but the defiance in his voice takes a sharp downturn as one of the men holding tight to him lets go to pull a pair of handcuffs from his belt. “You’ve…” Louis says. “You’ve got to be kidding me.” 

“Does it look that way?” Harry’s father asks. 

“Father, what are you…?”

“Hush, Harry,” Desmond says. He places one hand on Harry’s chest to keep him at bay, pulling Harry close to his own chest. “I am sorry things had to end this way.”

“What way?” Harry asks. “Louis did nothing wrong, Father, you can’t be serious…”

“Unfortunately, I am,” Desmond says. And with one hand he motions for the men holding Louis to drag him away. Only then, stunned and pitifully small, does Louis try to fight.

“No!” Louis says. “No, let go of me!” He twists his arms, snapping his head back to try and shout at the men behind him. “You can’t do this; I didn’t do anything!” It only takes a beat, one small moment, for Louis to realize he is powerless. So he turns back to Harry. The distance between them is nothing, nothing at all. But it is enough. Harry can see fear in Louis’ eyes, panic and terror. He pleads with Harry to believe him, for the love of God, he _knows_ Louis did not do anything. But Harry is held back. The one and only time he tries, fruitless, to fight against his father, Desmond holds him as tight as the two grim faced men hold Louis. 

“Leave him,” Desmond says. “He was never going to be anything but terrible for you.” And to the men, “Go on. Take him down below.” 

“Harry, don’t listen to him!” Louis cries. Already he is halfway out the door, out of the parlor, out of Harry’s sight, out of Harry’s life. He has no time to reply, to fight back, to tell him he would never, he wouldn’t, he won’t. 

Because he does. 

The door swings shut with an awfully final sound and Harry sinks to the carpet. His father follows him, his knees creaking on the floor, and he wraps both arms around Harry. 

“I am sorry,” he says. “Whether you believe me or not, this is for your own good.” 

Harry watches the door through which Louis disappears and he does what he always does best. Harry the wallflower, the obedient son, the blank slate…he does nothing.

 

Harry is listless as his father ties a lifejacket around his middle. He is listless as his father leads him to the upper deck, following the endless stream of people who lead the way. Harry is jostled and hit from all angles, his forehead colliding with his father’s shoulder more than once. If the lower decks were the picture of calm, collected incredulity at the need to get out of bed in the middle of the night, the upper deck is madness. People shout and people scream, out of anger and panic and protest. They shout silly things like, “You don’t understand, it’s a very expensive painting and I am not leaving this ship without it!” and, “Just wait until the White Star line gets word of how you’re treating us!” Harry yearns to scream, to tell each and every one of them to shut up, stop talking, and obey the staff who are only trying to help. 

Of course Harry wonders at what point they are going to be dismissed, to be released back down below to laugh over the situation over drinks. For once Harry is going to need one. 

(He is a coward but at least he knows now for sure. Louis’ face as he was hauled away is the single worst thing Harry has ever caused.)

There cannot be any coming back from what Harry has done. 

“You look troubled, Harry,” Desmond says, gripping tight to Harry’s shoulder. 

“Do I?” Harry replies. He eyes his father, eyes his greying hair and shining eyes without any ounce of kindness, of care. “I cannot imagine why.” 

“They will let us return to our rooms soon,” Desmond says. 

“Do you honestly believe that?” Harry replies. 

“This ship is unsinkable, Harry. Do you know how many times the captain told me so personally?”

“Many, I presume.”

“That’s right. Why would the captain put so much faith in the ship if there was none to be had?”

“There is such a thing as a foolish amount of pride,” Harry says, and he turns away from his father. Just as he faces the sea, the sea of people and beyond them the Atlantic, the captain himself passes Harry by. Before he can change his mind Harry chases after him. “Excuse me!” Harry calls. The captain, Captain Smith, faces Harry. 

The terror in his eyes is all Harry needs to see to know. 

“Captain,” Harry says. “How bad is it? Tell me, please.” Captain Smith peers around, at the crowded people who do not glance his way. He takes Harry by the arm and pulls him close anyway, Desmond making his way back to Harry’s side to listen over his shoulder. 

“The ship will sink,” the captain says. “There is no doubt.”

“Oh my God,” Desmond breathes, but Harry is breathless. 

“Please get off this ship as fast as you can,” Captain Smith urges. He looks far more haggard than Harry feels, his mouth turned down tight. “Get to a lifeboat and get off this damn ship. Don’t hesitate.”

“How much time?” Harry asks, pulling the captain back as he tries to walk away. 

“An hour,” the captain says. “Two at most.” He leans in close, smelling like every other man on this ship, like cigars and cologne. “There are not enough lifeboats,” he breathes. “Not by half. If you do not get on one now, you are going to lose your place. Go now. I will not see you again.” And just like a ghost, like nothing, Captain Smith is gone. 

And Harry’s resolve goes with him. 

He stands limp at his father’s side as they make their way to the lifeboats, to the wall of people who have no idea they could be doomed. Still, even now (does Harry imagine the minute tilt to the top deck or is it happening this quickly?) people do not seem to realize this is not something to laugh about. They complain and fuss and shiver, clinging to the sleeves of the tight faced members of the staff. 

“When can we go back to bed?” a man asks a fragile looking girl. 

“I’m afraid I can’t tell you,” she replies. “I know only as much as you.” The man scoffs and shoos her away, turning from Harry and making his way back to his trembling wife. 

Harry thinks of screaming. 

He thinks of shouting until he can’t anymore, emptying his lungs to tell the world they are going to slip to the bottom of the Atlantic. He should scream. He should. There are not many people who feel fear yet; a handful of men work to pull tarps and rope from a handful of lifeboats. Beyond them the crowd watches, listless, unmoving. Harry cannot be the only person who knows the truth. Can he? 

“Move, Harry,” Desmond says. Harry listens. He follows his father closer to the lifeboats, closer to the side of the ship. Harry watches as his father pulls a man from his work to whisper in his ear; Harry watches as his father argues and wrings his hands and finally presses money into the palm of the other man. When his father returns to Harry’s side he says, “They are only letting women and children onto the lifeboats once they get them untied.”

“Ah,” Harry says. “So that is us sunk, then.” But he knows better.

“No problem a little bit of money can’t solve,” his father replies. “Come with me.” Harry comes. As he moves a wave goes through the crowd, a motion that catches Harry’s attention as it catches everyone else’s. Captain Smith shouts to be heard over the chattering crowd. He calls to everyone he can reach, enlisting the help of the two men from the crow’s nest. 

(One of the two catches Harry’s eye and was it merely hours ago he cast teasing, joyful words Harry’s way?)

The man looks away and one by one, person by person, every soul onboard learns the truth. A ripple rolls through the throng, growing stronger, Harry pushed into his father’s side like he belongs there. The captain speaks quickly, calmly as he can. 

The boat is going to sink, he says. There is no doubt about it, he says. 

There is nothing he can do and he is sorry, he says. 

Women and children, first, please, he says, and please be careful getting onto the lifeboats. Calm and orderly, he says, and the crowd is anything but. They begin to panic as one person, as an entity rather than a group of people pretending to be dignified. 

First comes the screaming and next comes the shoving. 

All at once Harry can hardly breathe, pinned against his father, and he has no room even to recoil as his father winds one arm around his shoulders. 

“With me, Harry,” Desmond says as if Harry has a choice. “Do not leave my side.” And to the men who finish readying the first lifeboat, “Here! Let us through, please!” 

Before Harry can think, before he is ready, he sits at his father’s side in a lifeboat. His breath wisps out before him, into the dark, into the night, as an endless sea of faces fight for a spot beside Harry. 

“I have a daughter!” a man screams, a restless baby in his arms. “Please don’t take me away from her!” 

“No, no, my love, please get on without me; I couldn’t bear to keep you on this ship.” 

“I will be on the next boat, I promise!” 

Harry listens to the men and the women say their goodbyes. He keeps his head bowed to the floor, bowed to the sea. His hands tremble and he lets them. 

All he ever seems to do is let things happen to him.

“All right, Harry?” his father asks of him as the lifeboat begins to fill. Harry looks up at him for a brief moment and says nothing. “I only want what is best for you,” Desmond says. “You have to believe me when I tell you so.” 

“I see through you,” Harry replies. He leaves it at that. His father presses him for answers, for more, but a woman trips over Desmond’s shoe as she slips into the boat and he curses at her and loses his train of thought. 

“To think we have to spend any amount of time sharing space with third class,” Desmond scoffs. “What kind of system is this, anyhow?”

“What did you say?” Harry asks. 

“I said…”

“No, I…” Harry replies. “No, I heard you.”

“Then why…?”

“You know what, Father?” Harry says. This is too much. This is all too much, every last second of sitting here under his father’s arm. “I think I am done.”

“What do you…?”

“I’m finished with you. I hope you have an enjoyable ride off this ship, Father. I will not be joining you.” The moment Harry stands he feels free. He should have run before. He should have stayed away. But he has let himself be led and he is not going to do so anymore. His father shouts his name and his father tries to pull him back. Harry does not look his way. “Goodbye, Father,” Harry says, and with one last tug to get his coattails out of his father’s grasp, Harry climbs out of the lifeboat and back onto the ship. “Have a good life.” 

“Harry!” his father cries. “Harry, get back here! No, that’s my son, I have to…wait!” With a creak and the thick sound of rope sliding against rope, the lifeboat begins to descend. “Wait!” Desmond protests. “Hold on, let me off! Let me get my son!” 

Harry ignores it all. 

He is already off and running, his heart beating faster than it ever has before. He is sorry, sorrier than he would have ever expected to see his father go. It makes him ache deep down in his stomach, in his heart, in the place where he has kept the memories of a happy family locked up for years. It hurts more than it has any right to but Harry has no time for hurting now.

There is a boy he has to see. 

Down below there are more people than Harry ever expected to see. More people than he could have imagined even fit on the damn ship. He pushes his way through people like he has so many times he’s lost count (and still he has not finished his endless running). 

“Excuse me!” he shouts over his shoulder as he crashes between a man and his wife. He shoves past a group of men tying life vests onto impatient women, one cursing at her husband for mussing up her hair in the process. Harry has no time to urge them to the surface (when has anyone ever looked out for him, anyhow?). He passes them by. Maybe by the grace of God the two of them will find a boat with room for them; Harry has no time even to pray. When was the last time he did that, anyway? 

Harry finds the elevator, the same attendant who lent him a handkerchief, and he demands passage downstairs. He has not the slightest hope of anything but finding Louis; wherever Louis is Harry will get to him. But the man protests, pushing Harry gently out of the elevator. 

“I’m sorry, it is unsafe to run the…” he begins. 

“Please,” Harry says. “Please, I need to get down.” Maybe there is some sense of urgency in his face, one he can’t quite convey in his voice. Because the man listens to him. He shuts the gate and the elevator glides down, as gracefully as it always has. As if nothing is amiss, nothing in the world.

Nothing on this ship has any inclination they will sink to the bottom of the sea. 

Strange as it is Harry thinks of every beautiful thing that will be rusted and torn on the ocean floor. The art, the paintings, the silverware, the brooches, the jewels. All of it will amount to sand, to salt, to water. 

Harry is going to keep Louis from being one of those lost beautiful things if it is the last thing he does. 

“Oh, no,” the attendant moans, and it does not take Harry long to figure out the cause. The floor is wet and so are Harry’s shoes, water as cold as ice seeping in. “Oh no, oh no.”

“Shit!” Harry cries. Bottoming out, the elevator slows to a stop, and Harry rips the door open before it has settled. 

“I can’t wait for you!” the attendant says, anguish crossing his face. 

“Forget me!” Harry replies. “Forget it, thank you!” With a forlorn look the attendant shuts the gate again, water rushing down on Harry as it pours from the elevator floor. 

And he is alone. 

The water is crystal clear, strange, the color of ice. It sloshes against his ankles, up to his shins, and if Harry does not hurry he is going to sink with everything else. He does the only thing he can think to do, all alone with nothing but the sea for company. He shouts for Louis. 

“Lou!” he cries. “Lou!” He wades through the water, goose bumps flying up his arms from the cold. “Shit,” he hisses. It’s slow going, his shoes heavy and sopping wet. He does the best he can, legs aching and chest on fire. “Lou!” 

He gets nothing.

Every hallway looks the same, Harry doubling back more than once to try a different one. The water rises at a horrific rate, almost up to Harry’s knees by the time he has struggled down three white hallways. There is no one down here now. The contrast to hours ago, when Harry and Louis raced each other through third class, is nothing short of terrifying. 

“Louis!” Harry tries. “Lou!” 

A beat. A rest. Nothing. 

Harry’s chest burns from screaming and from the cold, his teeth chattering painfully against each other. How cold is this water? It burns like ice, like fire. The water is up to Harry’s thighs and he is running out of time. 

(His days were numbered the moment he stepped onto the ship. It only took him until now to accept the truth.)

“Jesus,” Harry breathes, and then louder, “Louis!” This time he hears it. The clanging of metal on metal, chains clinking. And a voice. “Louis?” 

“Harry!” Louis replies. “Harry, I’m here!” 

“Oh my God,” Harry whispers, and he runs. It’s hard, impossible, to run through this amount of water. Harry slips and falls and he goes under, choking up sea water as he rises back to his feet. “Louis!”

“Harry!” He follows the sound of Louis’ voice, shoving his wet curls from his face with both hands, shaking so hard the hallway blurs. 

“Louis?” he asks of a hallway with two long passages, and he waits. 

“Harry!” he gets back. And he goes. Finally, thanking God or whoever listens, Harry finds him. He finds Louis handcuffed to a goddamn pipe of all things, locked up by himself in a lonely hall in third class. 

“I’m sorry!” Harry bursts out. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry!”

“I know, honey, I know,” Louis replies. He stands on a rickety chair to avoid the water, his hair matted down to his forehead with sweat. And he is a sight for sore eyes. The loveliest thing Harry has ever seen, a picture of all the good things Harry will not let die in this place without a fight. Harry goes to him and drags Louis to him, one hand on the back of Louis’ neck.

“I’m sorry,” Harry says, quiet this time. Calm. Serene. 

“I know,” Louis replies.

“It’s my father, I’ve never in my life been able to say no…”

“It’s okay,” Louis coos. “Honey, it’s okay.” 

“And the awful things he said, Lou, I just had to come and find you…”

“I knew you would.”

“I knew you would never, you wouldn’t have anything of my father’s, but I’m such an idiot, Lou…”

“No, no, you’re not, you’re so good…”

“And to think I almost got off the ship without you…”

“You wouldn’t have.”

“But the thought of you and everything else in the water, all alone…”

“Hush,” Louis breathes, and Harry does. “Listen, you need to get me out of these.” He clanks his handcuffs against the metal pipe imprisoning him, urgent. “And you need to hurry. Can you do that? Are you with me?” 

“Always,” Harry says. He turns from Louis and searches for a key, for a knife, for anything to help him set Louis free. The only thing in the room is an axe, brilliant red, set up on the wall. 

“I trust you,” Louis breathes. “Do it.” Ten seconds later Louis has his eyes screwed up tight as Harry smashes away at the chains that bind him. 

“Don’t close _your_ eyes!” Louis cries, catching Harry in the act. Harry apologizes, grimaces, and tries everything he can to slow the tremor in his hands. Three more strikes of the axe and Louis is free, clinging to Harry with his face buried in Harry’s shoulder. “I just _knew_ you would come back for me,” Louis breathes. 

“I shouldn’t have even left you in the first place…” Harry tries to say. But Louis holds him too tight, all the air leaving Harry’s lungs, and he settles for a clumsy, one armed hug instead. 

“Let’s get out of here,” Louis says, and they go. The water is up to Louis’ waist as he clambers from the room, one hand laced through Harry’s. “Shit, that’s cold,” Louis hisses through his teeth. Harry knows. His own teeth chatter madly, his clothes soaked through. “Which way did you come from?” Louis asks. 

“That way!” Harry says, pointing with one hand, but the closer they get to the way out the higher the water rises. “Oh, God,” Harry breathes as the water hits his chest. “Oh, God, what do we do?” They look together to find the stairs overflowed with water, the ship tilting to one side so deeply the only way out is sealed. “Lou, what do we do?!”

“We find another way,” Louis says. “That’s all we can do.” 

And they do. They find a staircase with a waterfall trickling down, the sound so dissonantly merry Harry’s head spins. Louis leads Harry up and up and up by the hand until the water is down to his waist again, to his thighs, to his ankles. Hope begins to swell hot in Harry’s chest but the feeling does not last long. They find a crowd milling at the stairs to the first class deck, men, women and children fighting to get to the front of the line. 

“Oh, shit,” Louis breathes. And then, “Li! Oh, thank God!” Louis is engulfed in a flurry of arms, Liam thanking God himself as he holds onto Louis. 

“You’re all right!” a new voice cries, and this time it is Harry who is dragged into a warm pair of arms. “Blimey, you’re all wet! Where were you?!” Niall hugs Harry tight and then lets him go, both hands on Harry’s cheeks. Harry is so happy to see Liam and Niall he could cry if there was any room for tears in his eyes. There are too many faces swimming in his vision, too many people desperate for a way out, and Harry can hardly think. 

“We have to get through!” Louis cries from under Liam’s arm. “Why aren’t they letting us through?”

“So first class doesn’t have to look at us, most likely,” Liam replies, turning his eyes up to the staff guarding the gate at the top of the stairs. “No offense,” he says to Harry. 

“Don’t worry,” Harry says. “I understand.” And he does. It is the partial truth, after all, the reason for the staff keeping third class behind bars. But they are going to drown down here, the water rising fast, and Harry takes one more look at the three stony faced boys at his side and he runs. He dashes up the stairs, pushing by screaming children and anxious parents, and he slams both fists into the gate at the top. Louis is at his side in an instant, Liam and Niall at his heels, and Harry feels braver than he has any right to feel.

“Open the gate,” Harry says to the man beyond the bars. “You can’t keep us down here.”

“I’m under strict orders to…”

“Fuck your orders!” Louis barks, causing the man to nearly jump out of his skin. “There are kids down here! You can’t keep us locked down here to die!”

“Surely no one is going to die from waiting their turn, sir,” the man tries. But Louis has had enough. 

“Help me!” Louis cries to the people who wait. To the people who without a doubt could die from waiting no matter what anyone claims. “Help me break the gate!”

As one the crowd begins to move, Harry turning his back to the gate as Louis shoves at it with all his might. Harry helps push children to the sides of the stairwell to keep them out of harm’s way (for as long as he possibly can, anyhow, with the sea creeping in). 

“Help me!” Harry and Louis cry together. Niall takes a little girl under one arm and a boy under the other, giving them room to breathe as Liam joins Louis. 

“Now, please, stop pushing and remain…”

“Push!” Louis shouts. “PUSH!” They do. A woman clings to Harry like his wet clothes cling to his skin as the man at the gate tries his best to keep order. 

“I don’t want to have to shoot, sir, but I must insist you…”

“GO!” Louis barks, and the gate gives. With a shriek of metal and a scream like one voice from the crowd, people begin to make their way through the gate. Louis ducks and Harry scrambles to find his hand in the crowd as people climb and claw their way over Harry’s head. “Stay down!” Louis tells Harry. He has nowhere to go, anyhow, trapped to the side of the stairwell, and he laughs. He laughs, giddy, and he can hardly see Louis’ face through the tears in his eyes but Louis laughs, too. Of course he does, his beautiful boy, so brave in the face of whatever waits above. 

(Madness takes many forms, it seems, and Harry can’t make himself stop laughing with Louis despite the pain in his chest for a long, painful moment as the crowd begins to thin.)

When they resurface they find Niall and Liam waiting for them. Together they fly up the stairs, away from the water, back up towards the sky. Harry sees the stars first and he thinks he has never in his life seen a more welcome sight. 

“There’s no more boats!” Niall cries, but Louis is already up on the ship’s railings, leaning forward to see along the side. 

“There!” Louis replies. “Up near the front! Go! We’ll be right behind you!” Niall does not need to be told twice. He does not hesitate to take up Liam’s hand and drag him, Liam looking forlornly over his shoulder as he leaves Louis behind. “Let’s go,” Louis says. “Let’s check the other side.” 

Harry follows Louis across the deck, through the throngs of bodies fighting for safety. 

“Shit!” Louis shouts as one, two, three gunshots ring out across the night. Overhead a flare goes off in brilliant shades of red, a cry of distress.

(Is there anyone out there to see it?)

“Who are they shooting?” Harry asks. 

“Dunno!” Louis replies. Harry wants to kiss him, to kiss him as hard as he can, but Louis’ face is grim and his grip on Harry’s hand too tight. There is nothing Harry can do but follow Louis’ lead and wait for the end (whatever it may be). “Ah, thank God!” Louis swings Harry to his left side, close to one of the last remaining lifeboats. 

“Women and children only for the moment,” says a member of the staff with a white cap pulled down almost to his eyes. 

“I know,” Louis says. “But his father. His father panicked and got on a boat without him, sir, and, see, he can’t really live without his father. He’s a little, you know…” Louis makes a vague circular motion with one finger at the side of his head, indicating Harry’s supposed empty-headedness. “Simple.”

“I’m afraid I can’t…”

“Please,” Louis says. “I found him down below. You have to help him. I can’t just leave him here. Just let us on, please, so I can make sure he makes it to his father.” Louis speaks faster and faster, tongue tripping over words in his haste. The man, chin tilting down, shakes his head.

“Look,” Louis tries, “I don’t even need to go; I just need a seat for him. See? There’s room right there; there has to be.” He glances at Harry and Harry tries to beg.

(Louis can’t leave him; why did Louis say he would leave him?!)

“Lou…” Harry keens, but Louis does not listen. He stares at the man, face calm as he can make it, begging, and finally the man looks up. The man looks at Louis, at Harry, and finally he nods. 

“Only him,” the man says. He nods to Harry and Louis offers up a quick prayer to whoever the hell listens.

“Thank you, thank you!” Louis crows. Before Harry knows what’s happening Louis is helping Harry climb into the lifeboat, one hand on his waist and the other on the nape of his neck. “There, there,” Louis says, putting on a show for the man who watches. “I’m sure your father didn’t mean to leave you.”

“I can’t…” Harry says. But Louis shushes him. He kisses Harry on the side of his head and he whispers, 

“There will be another boat for me. I promise. Just stay on this one, honey, please.” 

“Louis, I won’t go without you…”

“You aren’t. I’ll be right behind.”

“Louis!”

“Stay on this boat, Harry. I mean it. I will be _right behind_. All right?” The man in the white cap gives the order to lower the boat and Harry has no choice. All of this is happening too fast for him to keep up; he feels slow and sluggish and sick. Louis clings to the railings of the ship, face so fierce it frightens Harry. “I’ll see you soon!” Louis calls as the boat begins to lower. 

“Louis!” Harry cries as Louis’ hand slips from his grasp. This is not right; this is not what Harry should be doing. He lets things happen to him and this is where he ends up; alone, alone, alone. He looks up to see Louis looking down, lowering his chin to the railing to watch Harry sink away. 

To watch Harry sink alone.


	8. You and I Are Gonna Live Forever

Harry counts to five. 

Harry counts to five. 

He counts to keep breathing, to keep reminding himself he is all right. He is alive. He is safe. But everyone around him screams and Harry is not safe at all. 

Harry counts to five and he looks up to the night sky. To Louis. He locks eyes with his boy, the boy who saved him, and Harry counts to five. He counts to five, holds his breath, and jumps. 

Even from where he lands, on his hands and knees back on the first class deck, Harry hears Louis scream. 

“No!” Louis cries, and then, “Goddammit, Harry!” Harry clambers to his feet and he runs. He runs and runs and never stops until he is exactly where he is supposed to be. Harry has a boy to love, a boy to keep, a boy to save, and he can’t stop until he finds him. He slams into his boy, he slams into Louis, and Louis grabs Harry by the shoulders. “You’re such an idiot, Harry!” Louis cries. “Goddammit, Harry, you’re so goddamn stupid!” He kisses Harry everywhere he can reach to the point of being frantic, panicked with it. “Why did you do that, Harry? What the hell were you thinking?!” 

“I couldn’t…” Harry chokes into a kiss. “I couldn’t go without you, Lou. I couldn’t.” 

“You should have,” Louis replies. “Goddammit, Harry, you should have! You were on the boat, Harry! You were…” He chokes as Harry kisses him, taking the words from Louis’ mouth with his own. They pull apart, breathing hard, and Louis does his best to finish his thought. “You were safe, Harry,” he says. His voice cracks on Harry’s name, his nose crinkling up, and if he is going to cry Harry is going to do worse. But Louis puts himself back together, his hands all over Harry, and he kisses Harry on the mouth so hard it stings. “I thought I was actually going to save you,” Louis breathes. And Harry tells him he has. Louis melts into Harry’s arms, soft, hair wet, but Harry is soaked to the bone and it is just as well. For a long moment they embrace in the chaos, not saying anything. But there is motion all around and they can’t stand around together forever. 

“We have to get back up to the top deck,” Louis says, hands on Harry’s cheeks. “I don’t know if we can…it might be too late…but we have to try.”

“We can do this,” Harry tells him. Because this all has to count for something, doesn’t it? The story of Harry and Louis can’t end here; Harry refuses. He leapt from the lifeboat for a reason (the same reason he chose not to leap from the back of the ship only nights ago) and the reason is obvious. 

His reason is Louis. He opens his mouth to tell him, to tell Louis he loves him, he loves him, but just as it always is the moment is taken from Harry. The ship shrieks and the people racing up the stairs trip up as the floor rolls beneath them. 

“We have to get up there,” Louis says. “And we have to go now.” Harry and Louis join the crowd once again, the crowd clamoring to get to the surface no matter what the cost. Men cast others aside, shoving and shouting and brandishing fists. Long gone are the first class gentlemen, the men who only yesterday would have turned green from such a sight. Now they fight, shouting to be heard, but all Harry can hear is the ship. 

“It’s going to break,” Harry keens as Louis tries to shove through the throng. 

“What is?” he tosses over his shoulder.

“The ship, Lou. The ship. It’s going to break in half.” Harry is surprised Louis can hear him at all and even more surprised when Louis gives up for a moment on pushing through and turns to look at him. 

(Even now, with broken handcuffs clinging to his wrists and his hair matted down over his eyes Louis is the prettiest thing on the sea.)

“It might,” Louis says. “That’s why we have to get up there before that happens.” 

“Okay,” Harry says. “Okay.” Louis tries to make room, to break free, but he is so small. He is nothing like the men who claw tooth and nail to get past, to get through. Louis is scared, terrified, but even at the end of the world he would do nothing to hurt someone else. Harry watches him try, idle at his side, but what else can he do? He is no match for these people, either. The will to live is a miraculous thing, turning mothers into monsters as they fight to get their children to the surface. But the water rises, up to the first class deck now in puddles and then waves, and there is no time. People scream and people cry and there is no hope. There is no getting through. Harry thinks wildly, panicked, but there is no other way out. There is no secret way up, no plan only Louis has, and they are stuck. They are trapped down here and Harry begins to calm. 

There is no way out but he is not alone. He did the right thing. He chose right; he chose Louis, and the guilt of leaving Louis down here to die alone would have been the death of Harry. 

How can he be anything but calm under the weight of such a resolution? 

“Lou,” Harry says to Louis’ back. “Lou, it’s okay.”

“Harry, don’t you give up on me,” Louis shouts in reply. But he is not giving up. He isn’t giving in, not really. Giving in would have been staying on the lifeboat with his father. Giving in would have been meeting a girl and feigning joy for the rest of a long, miserable life. Giving in would have been jumping off the back of the ship and if Harry has learned anything, it is he is never going to give in. All he is going to do is stay with Louis as long as he can, as long as Louis will have him, no matter what he has to do to stay there. 

Is that giving up?

Harry pulls Louis back by his shoulders and wraps his arms around Louis from behind. For a moment Louis fights back, desperate like everyone else to get up the stairs, but he pauses. He waits. And he settles against Harry’s chest. 

“We’ll be okay,” Harry says, like he knows. Like he is sure. “Just wait with me. We’ll get up there.”

“You’re such an idiot, Harry,” Louis replies. His voice sounds far away, Harry’s face pressed against Louis’ shoulder blades, but Harry gets the message. “I had you saved. I had you…”

“You still do,” Harry replies. “It’s all right, Lou. You still do.” They stand still for a long while, watching the crowd get nowhere. The water splashes cold against Harry’s ankles as they wait, helpless as the sea washes in. Harry shivers against Louis and somehow Louis is still warm, hot, even, like his own little sun. “I love…,” Harry starts to say, but something else draws his attention. A shrieking sound from behind him, nothing like the shrieking of the ship. Not like metal on metal, wood scraping wood. This sound is human. 

“Do you hear that?” Harry asks Louis, and slowly Harry unwinds his arms from around Louis. In slow motion, quiet, the two of them turn to face the water seeping across the deck. They listen. And Harry hears it again. 

“Oh, no,” Louis breathes. And they run. Down below there is a voice, a small one but a voice nonetheless, and Harry and Louis never think, do they? Clutching tight to Louis’ hand Harry leads the way back down, down, down the sloping, slippery halls. They find her, a little girl no older than seven, all alone in a corner of an empty hall. She speaks no English and only cries when Louis tries to urge her to her feet, the water soaking her long, black dress. 

“Hey, sweetheart, you have to move,” Louis tries, Harry clinging to his hand at his side. He makes motions up with his free hand, trying his best to reach for the girl. But she shies away, tears on her face, and Louis grows impatient. “Let’s go!” His hand slips from Harry’s as he drops to his knees in the seawater, scooping the girl up in his arms. She shrieks in protest, so loud it echoes down the hall. “Hey, hey, hey!” Louis says as the little girl struggles in his arms. “I’m trying to help you, please calm down…” She can’t understand him and Harry wants to remind him so, but Louis is already sloshing through the water back the way they came. The girl looks at Harry over Louis’ shoulder, her cheeks as red as her streaming eyes. 

Harry follows. 

The water rises impossibly fast, the doors on both sides of the hall swaying open and shut with the force. The girl shrieks and bangs her tiny fists on Louis’ back, kicking and screaming. Louis does nothing to stop her. Ahead of Harry he watches, too far to help, as a man bursts into the hall and slams Louis against the wall. Eyes wild with panic, he rips the girl from Louis’ arms, Louis doing nothing to fight back. The girl’s father moves to carry her away, to carry her the wrong way, and Louis snaps back into action. 

“Wait!” Harry calls, closer to the man than Louis is, but the man ignores them. 

“Wait, you’re going the wrong way!” Louis shouts at the top of his lungs but all the power in his body is not enough to stop what happens next. The bulging door at the far end of the hall explodes open and a tidal wave of water pours across the floor. 

Straight towards Harry and Louis. 

The man and his daughter are swept under faster than Harry can open his mouth to cry out, the water pouring over them and sweeping them off their feet. 

“Go!” Louis cries. Harry knows better than to pause. He runs, the water up to his knees, and he finds Louis’ hand. He clings to Louis’ fingers as tight as he can but he can hear the water rushing up behind him. They don’t have enough time; they have nothing at all. 

The lights go out and flicker back on, plunging the hall into absolute darkness just long enough for Harry to lose his balance. 

He goes under. 

In the water he loses Louis’ hand, he loses Louis, and he can’t get to the surface. There can’t possibly be this much water; the sea does not belong in here and there cannot be enough water to drown in inside the pristine halls. But it’s here and there is and Harry fights to get his head above water. The sea sweeps him down the hall, the lights flickering and fading overhead, and the second Harry gets a chance he takes in a lungful of air. He is alone, he’s lost Louis, and he grabs for anything he can to keep from getting lost himself. Harry is not going to drown here, with the thunderous sound of water roaring over his head. He is not going to drown alone with no one to find him, no one to ever see him again. 

He is not. 

The power goes out and Harry can’t see the water anymore; he can’t see anything. But his back slams into something hard, something that keeps him steady, and he grabs for it like a lifeline. He uses all the air in his body to cry Louis’ name, desperate and loud, and miraculously, beautifully, Louis answers him. 

“Here!” Harry shouts, and Louis reaches for Harry’s hand. They lose their grip and get it back, Louis going in and out of focus with the flashing lights of the hall. 

(It has to be as dark as the bottom of the sea in this hall; Harry has never known such total darkness existed in anywhere but the night sky.)

Wherever they are, wherever they cling as water rushes over their heads, for the moment they do not move. Harry holds onto Louis for dear life, holding on as tight as he can, their foreheads pressed together. Louis’ nose brushes Harry’s and they are alive; they are alive and Harry is not going to let that go away. They are safe, they are, and the lights go back on as if someone, anyone is listening. 

“Up the stairs!” Louis cries, and Harry goes. They sit tangled up together at the bottom of a staircase, Harry choking on saltwater, and Harry goes. Louis pushes him, urging him along, up to the top. The water gets lower as they go and once again the lights go out. “Shit!” Louis mutters in Harry’s ear, somewhere close behind him. They scrabble up the stairs and Harry falls onto his knees, bones crying out in protest. “UP!” Louis shouts. And Harry gets up. Louis curses over and over in the dark, doing nothing else but pressing Harry along. 

“Lou!” Harry says. He has no idea why, no reason for calling Louis’ name, but when Louis echoes Harry’s name back to him in reply he feels a little bit better. 

“Just keep going up!” Louis says. The water rises still, slapping at the back of Harry’s knees, but without water in his face, over his eyes, Harry is all right. He is. He can breathe now and each breath hurts, throat thick with salt, but that only means he is alive. He is. 

Harry hits a wall face first and bounces back, pain springing hot up behind his eyes. Louis slams into him and Harry hits his face again, barking in pain. 

“I’m sorry, baby, I’m sorry.” Louis’ hands are all over Harry and this is too much; he has never been someone’s baby as long as he can remember and that only means he is still alive. There are so many more things he has yet to be and he is going to be them all. “I can’t see,” Louis says, but Harry follows him anyhow. They end up blinking owlishly at each when with a low humming noise the lights fade back in. 

“You’re a sight for sore eyes,” Louis breathes, and Harry loves him. 

“This isn’t a time to be funny, Lou,” he replies just to be funny himself, just to prove he is all right. He is here. He is Louis’. And he is alive. The longer they stand still the faster the water seems to rise, clear as crystal and cold as ice. “Let’s move.” 

There is a second staircase and they are so close, so close to the surface Harry can hear the screaming of the people in first class like they were right in front of him. 

He can hear music, violins and cellos, and either he has gone mad or there are men on the top deck playing on. 

“Go!” Louis says. “Go, honey, go!”

They go.

Together they race across the ship, the lights fading in and out, racing towards dry ground. The tilt of the ship makes the going slow, Harry’s chest aching as he runs. There is water up to Harry’s ankles and then it is gone, Louis guiding them to the surface as fast as they can go. The night is cold and Harry gulps the air anyhow as they climb to the top deck, back into the fray, back into the chaos. 

“Keep going!” Louis gasps. “We have to stay on the ship as long as we can!” 

Harry follows him. 

They push through the crowd as the ship’s tilt becomes more pronounced, Harry leaning forward hard to stay on his feet. He climbs more than he runs, Louis on his heels to push him when he needs it. Harry’s heart is going to burst and he is going to lose it but he is going to do everything in his power to do as Louis says. To stay on the ship and stay at Louis’ side and never, ever leave him again. 

Louis is at Harry’s back and then he isn’t. Harry whirls around to find him, nearly getting bowled over, and Harry spots what Louis is looking at just in time to watch the scene unfold. Niall and Liam fight across the deck with a man brandishing a gun, a man fighting back the crowd as they try to get on one of the very last lifeboats. Harry has time to open his mouth to scream and not much else before the crowd surges forward like one, the men at the front of the line are shoved, and Niall is thrown back with a bullet hole in the front of his life jacket. 

“No!” Harry cries. Louis holds him as he collapses, knees hitting the deck for the hundredth goddamn time, and Harry’s throat tightens as he tries and fails to keep tears back. 

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” Louis says, chanting rather than saying anything at all, but Harry can’t move no matter how hard Louis tries to pull him up. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, God, I’m so sorry…” Louis drags Harry to his feet and Harry collapses again; Liam is on his knees, too, head bowed as he wrestles Niall’s bloodied life jacket off of him.

(He won’t need it, will he? Harry has never seen such death before and it tears him apart.)

“Honey, please!” Louis screams. “I know, I’m sorry, we have to keep moving!” The ships screams far louder than Louis and Harry moves. He is on his feet and the night is frigid, ice in his hair and ice clinging to his face. The tears on his cheeks freeze and he wipes them away as best as he can, his sleeve too wet to do any good. “I’m sorry!” Louis shouts as they run, like he can stop this, like this is all his fault. Like confessing his sins will ease the coldness in the air, in the water, in Harry’s chest. But Niall is (was) hardly older than Harry, Niall is so young, and if Niall can be gone than so can Harry. So can Louis. 

The ship is a mountain Harry climbs, desperate, and Louis pushes Harry over the railing to a flooded set of stairs just as the Titanic begins to break in two. 

“Shit!” Louis cries, and then, “Hold on!” Louis locks his arms around Harry and Harry locks his around the railing, the metal as slick as his hands. The ship bucks in the sea like a living thing, casting people off both sides as it goes. The screaming gets louder from all sides and Harry can’t help it. Harry closes his eyes. He waits for the end, for the ship to crash into the sea, and all at once the deck is flat again. 

A long, pregnant pause in the screaming makes the flare bursting in the sky only more horrifying.

And just as quickly as the ship lay flat, it begins to fold again. Harry opens his eyes to watch the front of the ship sink into the sea, taking screaming people with it (taking lifeless people with it). His face hurts from the ice clinging to his cheeks and he can’t make himself scream with them. He wants to, he does, but Louis is at his ear telling him to run. Is Harry’s father watching the chaos unfold or is he too afraid? Is he weeping, is he sorry, as he watches the ship sink with Harry onboard? Maybe his father is stoic or maybe his father is angry; Harry hopes nothing more than his father being alive.

At least one of them has a chance.

“Get to the back of the ship!” Louis shouts. And as long as Harry is alive, he is going to keep moving. People slip and slide across the rapidly rising deck, the floor coming up to meet Harry, and bodies fall by Harry as he goes. He tries not to look. They are almost there, almost to the back, almost to a place where Harry faced death before and looked the other way. But he has no choice now; death is here and Harry has to watch it come. 

Louis heaves Harry over the railing at the back of the ship and he slips, smashing his face on the metal. Harry grabs for him and catches him by the forearms, miraculous, thanking God, and he hauls Louis up and over to lie on his stomach at Harry’s side. There is nothing left to do now but wait and watch the sea boil over up to catch them. 

“Oh shit, oh God,” Louis says, eyes far away. Harry watches with him as men the size of ants churn in the water, desperate, clinging to the last lifeboat as it fills with water. “Harry, that’s Liam…” Louis breathes, almost too quiet to hear over the wrath of the sea. But it is. Liam fights his way through the ropes tying the lifeboat to what is left of the ship, a knife clutched in his hand. He runs out of time like everyone else and it happens so fast Louis has no time himself to look away. The final mast on the top deck breaks free with a scream, with a shout, and it falls. It tumbles into the sea and crushes the men down below, Louis crying out in pain at Harry’s side. 

Funny how Harry can do nothing now but chant himself, one arm slung over Louis’ shaking shoulders. 

“I shouldn’t have let him out of my sight…” Louis chokes, and Harry glances his way to see blood on his face from hitting the railings. “I should have…”

“I’m sorry,” Harry says. “Lou, it’s okay, I’m sorry.” And he tries something else. Something desperate. He laughs. “Lou,” he breathes with the sea at their heels, “Lou, this is where we first met.” 

And it works. For Louis the world swings back into focus and his eyes leave the mast in the water, the bodies below it and the carnage in the sea. 

He takes a deep breath and he locks eyes with Harry. “Okay,” he says, “Okay. The ship is going to pull us under if we let it,” he says, chest heaving. There are tears on his cheeks, too, icing over as he speaks. “Swim as hard as you can for the surface. You can do it. I won’t lose you. I will not lose you, too.”

“Nor I you,” Harry replies. He won’t. He won’t. The ship sinks and the sea roars in Harry’s ears, so loud he can’t think. He can’t remember heat or light or life and he waits for the end to come.

What else can he do?

“Take a deep breath, Harry,” Louis shouts. “And don’t let go of my hand!”

Harry inhales to tell Louis he won’t, he won’t ever, but the sea has other plans. He has enough time to lock hands with Louis and nothing else. He waits for the end, he watches it come, and the sea comes up and swallows him whole. 

 

Harry is cold. He is cold and he is alone. There is water in his throat, in his eyes, and he has to get to the surface but he cannot remember why. There is no light down here, nothing to see, and why is it Harry has to breathe at all? His lungs ache and he kicks as hard as he can, desperate for a reason. He can’t find anyone, anything, and he must be alone. There is no one. 

Who would have guessed the Atlantic was such a lonely place to die?

Harry fights to get his head above water and the moment he does, gasping and choking on saltwater, he realizes how far from alone he is. More people than he can count fight in the water all around him, each and every one of them fighting the same battle. His lungs scream, chest on fire, but of all the faces all around him he does not see the one he wants. 

“Louis!” Harry cries. He let go of Louis’ hand in the sea, he let Louis go, and he fights the water like fighting will bring Louis back to him. “Shit. Louis!” A hand finds Harry’s under the water and he whirls around to find Louis looking back at him. The sea has washed the blood from Louis’ face and he shivers in the water, eyes wide. 

“Keep swimming!” he shouts. “With me!” He half hauls Harry along behind him, strong even in the frigid water. Harry does all he can to keep up. His legs are going numb but his hands and his arms ache, on fire from the cold. He can’t feel his nose and there are ice crystals in his eyelashes but he can feel Louis pulling him and it’s all the pull he needs. “Here!” Louis shouts. He drags Harry close to his chest and helps push Harry up onto a floating door. Harry has a second to recognize it as one of the doors to the dining hall before he rolls up onto it, clinging to the sides to keep from falling. Louis shouts words of encouragement at his back, telling him that’s good, get up on it, get his ass out of the damn water. And Harry does. Louis climbs up next to him, shivering so violently Harry hears his teeth chattering, and the world flips upside down. The door collapses into the water under the weight of both of them and Louis does not pause; Louis never pauses. He shoves Harry back on the door, up out of the sea, and he swims until Harry can see him again. 

“Good,” Louis says. He nods once, close to Harry’s face, his arms up on the door and the rest of him in the water. “Good, honey, stay there,” he breathes. Up close it is so much easier to hear him, to see him under the light of the stars. His face is pale but his nose is red, his eyes streaming. Louis lowers his chin to the wood, his hands scrabbling to find Harry’s. “The lifeboats will come back for us,” Louis says. “We j-just have to hold on a little longer, okay?”

“I can’t feel my body,” Harry replies, but Louis shakes his head.

“That’s all right,” he says. “You’re going to be okay. I promise.” The water churns all around them but the sounds of struggles and screams are beginning to quiet. Harry has his moment.

“I love you, Lou,” Harry says. 

Louis’ reply is immediate but not at all what Harry wants (needs) to hear. “D-don’t do that to me,” Louis snaps. “Don’t say goodbye.”

“Lou…” Harry says. He loses feeling in his fingertips but he can still feel Louis’ hands wrapped around his. Harry’s teeth chatter painfully and Louis matches the motion, shaking against the side of Harry’s little lifeboat. 

“You’re not going to die here,” Louis tells him. “Not tonight. Do you understand me?”

“B-but Lou…”

“You’re going to live to see one hundred,” Louis says. “H-hell, you’re going to live to see the turn of the century.” 

“Stop,” Harry gasps. The cold takes the air from his body and drags it away; he can hardly draw in enough to speak. Every breath hurts deep in his chest and this has to be the end. There is nothing else. No hope. 

“T-tell me something,” Louis says, pressing his lips to Harry’s knuckles. Distracting him from the pain. The cold. “Hey, t-tell me about your family. You n-never got the chance.”

“I d-don’t have any family.”

“But you did. You d-did, Harry, and I want to hear about them.”

“I had a sister,” Harry manages. “And a mother. A l-long time ago. They d-died, Lou, and n-now my father is going to be alone…”

“Hush,” Louis says. “What were they l-like?” Harry can’t remember. The ice on his face takes his memories from him. He closes his eyes against the growing quiet, the people dying all around him. 

“B-beautiful,” Harry says.

“Ah,” Louis replies. “So j-just like you. W-what were their names? T-tell me, Harry.”

“My sister was Gemma,” Harry says. The name has not passed his tongue is years, and neither has the thought of her face. 

(She waits for him, doesn’t she? All Harry has to do is let go.)

“And m-my mother was Anne.”

“That’s a l-lovely name,” Louis says. “M-my mother’s name is Johannah. B-but everyone c-called her Jay. Harry, s-she didn’t even know I was here.”

“I’m sorry,” Harry tells him. He is so, so sorry; he is so sorry it takes his breath away. The thought of not one person being left to mourn, not one person in the world worrying about Louis as the news of the Titanic’s sinking comes…Harry can’t breathe. “Oh, Lou, how w-will they ever…”

“Don’t worry,” Louis says. “Hey, don’t worry. T-tell me more. About your family. I’m n-not worried about mine. D-don’t be worried for me.”

Harry obeys. “They w-were sick for a long time,” Harry says. “And m-my father never got b-better after they died. What w-will he do now?”

“Hush,” Louis says again. “You’re so brave, Harry. You’re not going to b-be with them just yet.”

“Your lips are blue,” Harry tells him, and Louis nods. 

“Hey, n-nothing I haven’t dealt with b-before. I f-fell through ice as a k-kid. Once. This? This is nothing compared t-to being trapped under the ice. H-here, at least I can breathe.”

“It’s so quiet,” Harry whispers, but Louis squeezes his hands. 

“Listen,” Louis says like Harry has anything else to hear. “You’re n-not going to die tonight. You’re g-going to grow old. I n-need you to promise me you won’t give up t-tonight. Can you promise me that?”

“Lou…”

“Listen.” Harry pauses, heart pounding in his ears. “I mean really listen.” Harry does. “Winning a ticket onto this boat is the best thing that’s ever h-happened to me. B-because it brought me to you.” 

Harry waits. 

“So d-don’t worry about me. Worry about yourself. I j-just need one thing from you, Harry, and I n-need you to promise me you’re not going to g-give up. Can you do that?”

“Yes,” Harry says. He does not believe it, not for a second, but the intensity in Louis’ eyes (the same color as his lips) scares him. So he nods. He can’t feel his hands anymore but he can feel Louis’ eyes all over him and he nods. “I p-promise.” 

“Good,” Louis says. “Hey, I knew you h-had it in you. From the m-moment I met you, I knew.” 

“I love you,” Harry says again just to say it. Just to hear it spoken out loud. 

“Honey, I love you, too,” Louis replies, and that is all. The world around Harry goes quiet as he closes his eyes. He opens them once, to look at Louis, and he leans in close. Louis closes the distance, pressing icy lips to Harry’s. Louis’ mouth quirks up and Harry echoes the ghost of a smile Louis gives him. 

No more words pass between them. Louis’ eyes slip closed and Harry gives him a moment of peace. He rolls over to face the sky, to face the stars. 

They have never looked so beautiful. 

Harry faces the night and the cold fades away with everything else. He closes his eyes and feels nothing more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Valentines' Day :D 
> 
> You can reach me at ourl0veisgod on tumblr with any questions, comments or concerns. 
> 
> We're really reaching the end now, aren't we?


	9. The Void Took the Shape of all That You Were

There is nothing.

There is dark and there are stars and there is nothing else. 

Harry opens his eyes to a brilliant night sky. Light blinds him coming from far, far away. The night is quiet as death. And Harry closes his eyes against it all. There is nothing to see beyond the light, beyond the stars, and what does Harry need open eyes for, anyhow? 

And it hits him. The finality of the silence, the chill in his bones, the icicles in his eyelashes. This is real; he is here and all around him there are others who are not so lucky. Harry turns his head, neck creaking, and he does not feel it. Harry can’t feel much of anything. He turns his head towards the light, towards whatever the hell waits for him, and he feels his vacant eyes go wide. 

The lifeboats have come back. The lifeboats have come back to scavenge the sea for survivors, dragging lifeless bodies from the water to check for breath, for living eyes. And they find nothing. Harry watches them, listless, as the two men on an empty lifeboat toss back man after man, woman after woman. There are no signs of life on the sea. And Harry is going to be left behind with every empty face staring back at him. 

He has to find his way to the light before it fades away. 

The men on the lifeboat sweep flashlights across the flat plane of the sea, the flat pane of glass that is the Atlantic. Harry fights his way to his elbows, eyes trained on the men and their light. 

“They came back,” Harry croaks. His voice comes out sounding a hundred years unused, dry and dull. Mouth dry and lips numb, Harry speaks to no one. He speaks to the death all around him and…

He speaks to Louis.

“Lou,” Harry breathes. “Lou, the boats. They came back.” Harry can’t tear his eyes from the one and only lifeboat, the one and only source of hope on the black sea. But he has to. He has to. He does. “Lou,” Harry says again. His voice is the only one he hears. The men do not hear him. He can hardly hear himself. 

Louis is where Harry left him. Louis’ hands are on Harry’s little boat, fingertips icy blue. Louis’ hands are so small on the sea and Louis’ hands are still. 

“Lou…” Harry says, his voice a creaking door. He struggles on elbows and knees to get closer to Louis, to press his forehead to Louis’. “Louis, dear,” he rasps, nonsensical. “Louis, sweetheart. The boats. They came back.” 

He speaks to Louis. He speaks to no one. 

Louis’ face is serene, eyes closed, eyelashes dusted with icicles like stars. 

Harry studies Louis’ face for a long moment, one that stretches out until it can’t anymore. And then it snaps. 

“Lou,” Harry keens. Low. Soft. Like he might wake Louis, might shake the world apart with his voice alone. The light of twin flashlight beams begin to trail away into the night, Harry’s ragged breathing the only thing he can hear. “Louis, they’re going to leave. We have to go.”

(He is not cold anymore, not cold, not cold.)

Harry has never seen Louis so still. 

Louis stops for no one; he laughs his way through everything thrown in his path. He stops for no one but he stops for the sea. 

“Lou…” Harry says even though he knows. He knows as he searches for Louis’ hands and he knows as he brushes Louis’ icy nose with his own. “Lou. Lou, honey.”

(Remarkable how now when the world falls apart around him Harry finds his voice to call Louis everything he was afraid to say.)

Harry looks up over Louis’ head, over the ice crusted to his hair, and he watches the boat sweep through the water. No one stirs on the Atlantic tonight; Harry watches as the men grow desperate and panicked and lost. He wants to hear them and he strains only to get nothing. They are too far to hear and Harry has lost his chance to be saved. 

“Lou, it’s okay,” Harry whispers. “Hey, it’s okay.” His voice shakes as hard as his hands and he wants Louis to smile. He wants to watch Louis’ lips twitch up and he wants Louis to open his damn eyes and _smile_. “They’re going to leave me here,” Harry says to Louis. He gets nothing in reply.

This can’t be the end. Harry refuses. He does not have much but he has a life to live. He told Louis he would; he told his boy he would do anything but give in. He swore to it. Louis’ eyes burned for the last time as he told Harry to stay alive. What else can Harry do? Louis is still and Louis is cold but isn’t everything out here? Harry was warm once, warm in the arms of a boy who loved him…wasn’t he? And this can’t be the goddamn end. Harry refuses. The sea can take everything from Harry. It can take the breath from his body and the blood from his limbs and the love from his heart but he won’t let it take his life. 

He has a promise to keep.

“Louis,” Harry says, the lifeboat disappearing into the icy blue night. “Louis, love. Louis, my Louis.” Nothing so beautiful has ever been his and Harry is too alone to survive this loss. He does not have it in him. Does he? “Louis, I love you.” Harry’s voice comes out a squeak, pathetic, small. He runs out of time like he runs out of everything else and if he wants to see the sun he has to let Louis go. “Louis, please.” What the hell is he begging for? Who in the world is he talking to? There is no one. There is nothing. 

Louis is gone and Harry speaks to no one. 

“Louis…” Harry gives him time. He gives Louis a moment and then more, a minute on the sea. He gives Louis time to open his eyes; he gives Louis a shake like he will. Like he believes there is life in the icy blue of Louis’ face. Nothing so perfect has ever been Harry’s. And before he had time to claim it, it is gone. His heart hurts and he can’t breathe, his lungs just another thing the sea rips from him. 

“Can anyone hear me?” one man cries into the dark, and finally Harry can. Harry hears him. But already the boat is too far away, the man’s back to Harry, and he looks away from the man to look back at his boy. 

(Never did he think he would see such perfect stillness in him.)

“Louis, I love you,” Harry croaks. At least Louis got to hear the truth. At least Harry got to tell him. There are not many thinks Harry can thank God for but that is one of them. One good thing came out of this night; Louis did not die before he knew he was loved. 

(He is loved.)

Harry is still alive to love and he is going to love Louis for as long as he can. Louis saved him, after all, in every goddamn way a person can be saved. Eyes dry, mouth dry, tears dried to ice on his cheeks, Harry presses his lips to Louis’ fingers. 

“Louis, I love you,” Harry says again. If only to hear it pass his lips one more time before the end. He goes to drop back into the sea, to swim for his life if need be, but something pulls him back. He can’t make himself look away from Louis’ face. He can look away now and close his eyes and keep the memories of Louis smiling alive. He should. He wants to. But there is too much ice in Harry’s hair and too much fog in his head and he can’t make himself turn away. Harry can almost pretend Louis is asleep. That’s what they say, isn’t it, that death merely looks like sleep? Harry never knew how right they were. He can pretend but he owes it to Louis to see the truth. 

Harry’s boy, the beautiful boy on the sea died to save Harry. 

There is not much else Harry can do. He kisses Louis again, one more press of his lips to Louis’ knuckles, and he lets go. He can’t kiss away the ice on Louis’ cheeks and he can’t kiss away the awful, dizzying grey color of Louis’ eyelids. He can’t fix this and he can’t change anything; all he can do is fall into the sea. All he can do is what he tried to nights ago; all he can do is let the sea have him. 

The world swims back into nightmarish focus the moment Harry’s body hits the water, Harry gasping and fighting for air. Harry leaves Louis behind and he is so sorry, so sorry he is going to let it kill him. His chest is on fire and he wades in the sea, the stars his only company. He brushes by lifelessness and quietness and nothingness, nothing at all in his way. 

“Come back!” Harry asks of the lifeboat. “Please come back.” He can’t speak, his voice a whimper, and they cannot hear him. They can’t see him. 

(Harry is a ghost just as much as every man, woman and child claimed by the sea.)

“I’m here,” Harry whimpers. “Please.” He still has time. He does. He wants to turn back now; he wants to look Louis in the face and tell him he is sorry, desperately sorry for always making the wrong choice and always leaving him behind. What’s one more time? One more apology Louis will accept? Louis will be there if Harry turns back. What’s the purpose of leaving him alone? No one will mourn them. They will become saltwater; they will become sand and dust at the bottom of the sea. What’s the purpose of doing anything else but giving in?

The men on the boat are not giving up and Harry hears the tears in their throats as they shout. 

They will mourn, won’t they?

Harry’s head goes under the water and he comes up choking, arms tired as his numb legs. He has no strength to spare and he goes under again, eyes aching in the saltwater. 

Harry spends a long moment suspended, breathless, before surging to the surface. 

If Harry dies, Louis dies with him. Harry is the only one; Harry is the only person left alive who knows Louis by heart. If Harry dies Louis will die a second death, the death of his family never knowing what happened. Where Louis is and what he has done and who he has touched and loved and felt. Louis left light on the ship, didn’t he? He left peace. And who the hell is Harry to let that go unnoticed? Louis deserves to be kept alive, doesn’t he? Louis deserves to be remembered in the stars. 

“Come back!” Harry calls. “Come back.” His voice is stronger if only just, his hands churning through the water. The sea wants to swallow him up, the waves threatening to take him under. He will not let it. He will not. Harry searches for salvation, for safety, for anything. His eyes ache and he can hardly see in the dark but he bumps into something hard and he pauses. A silver whistle dangles from the fingertips of a dead man, his face empty and eyes wide open. Harry has no more time. His head goes under, his eyes shut, and he reaches for the whistle with everything he has left. 

The sound of it pierces the night like the scream of a banshee, bright and tinny and high. All at once the flashlight beams sweep Harry’s way, the men shouting with glee, and Harry collapses against the buoyant weight of the dead man’s life vest. 

Harry closes his eyes and waits for the men to come. When they do it is quick; strong hands haul Harry onboard the lifeboat and another pair wraps a blanket around his shoulders. 

“Thank God, thank God,” the man before Harry says. Over and over. Like a prayer. “Oh, thank God. Thank God.” Harry looks at him with tired eyes, the world fading all around him. Out of the water, out of the sea of death he waded through, Harry feels nothing but tired. 

“Are there any more?” the man asks Harry, hovering over him as he collapses on his back in the boat. “Did you see anyone else alive out there?” 

“No,” Harry croaks. “No.” And after some prodding, the man loud and ceaseless, Harry goes on. “There is no one,” he says. “No one.” The man gives up on him and joins the other at the front of the lifeboat, as far from Harry as they can get. They scream a little longer; they shout to the heavens for anyone left alive. But the night sky already lightens to a sickly shade of grey instead of inkiest black and Harry closes his eyes. He is exhausted and spent and there is nothing else left for him to look at as the night begins to end. Everything ends, doesn’t it? Every night has to. Every good thing and every bad thing comes to an end. And as Harry drifts off to sleep in the bottom of a rocking lifeboat he can’t quite decide which sort of night he falls asleep inside. 

 

Harry awakens to dawn, to a massive ship looming over his head. A ship called Carpathia sits on the sea, serene and quiet as night. He awakens to a new day and he blinks the cold from his eyes, sitting up too fast and bowing his head against the stars blurring his vision. 

“You’re all right,” one of the men tells him. He has a kind face and sympathetic eyes but he knows nothing. He does not know Harry’s name or what he has done to be here. He does not know Harry left his heart far behind; he left his heart behind him to die. Harry nods but Harry says nothing. Sure. He is all right. He can be all right if that is what he has to be. 

Sure hands haul the lifeboat up against the ship, metal slapping on wood. There are dozens of strangers on the top deck, hundreds. They sit huddled in twos and threes and fours, heads down against the chilly morning, murmuring amongst themselves. Harry lets himself be guided across the deck, the men from the lifeboat passing Harry into the hands of a wide eyed woman. 

“Sit,” she tells him. “Sit and rest. I can’t imagine what you have been through.” She touches Harry’s cheek and she walks away, leaving Harry to watch the morning unfold. The survivors of the unsinkable ship’s sinking wait to hear something, anything at all, about the ones they left behind. Women scream when they can’t find their husbands; children openly weep when their mothers cry. Harry watches them all, empty, quiet, dull. He sits with his blanket wrapped over his head, curls still damp against the nape of his neck. He will never be dry again, more likely than not, and no matter how hard he tries he can’t stop shivering. 

And Louis should be here. Harry is not much but he is not stupid. He is not brave or strong or wise but he knows more than he knows anything else. Louis deserves to see the sun. With the space at Harry’s side vacant he has no idea what to do. Where to go. 

There is a man with a stack of papers in his hands, taking names of each and every survivor. Harry trails him with his eyes, watching as he comforts crying women the best he can. And as the man sweeps across the deck Harry’s eyes fall on a familiar face. Harry’s father speaks urgently with the man taking names, hands all over the place as he talks. 

“My son…” Desmond says, numb, still, but not as still as Harry. Desmond looks up to the man, face desperate, and Harry makes a choice. He pulls his blanket up over his face and bows his head down towards the deck. He makes a choice. He hides.

He does not have much but here he has a choice. He has a choice he was never given before; an out he was never offered. Harry is not the son he should be but he never was, anyway. Why the hell should he start trying now?

“Please tell me he’s here,” Harry’s father says, but Harry’s choice is made. He has done wrong by his father too many times to make it up to him now. Let Harry Styles be dead. Let the Titanic be the place Harry died. 

By the time the man makes his way to Harry, prodding him gently on the shoulder to get his attention, his father has gone quiet. 

“Excuse me, sir, can I get your name?” the man asks. Harry does not have to think twice.

“Harry,” he says. And then, “Harry Tomlinson.” The man nods and the man leaves Harry alone. It is just as well. Harry is already getting used to the feeling of feeling alone. 

If Harry Styles has to die so the memory of Louis can live on, so be it. So be it. 

Harry steps off the Carpathia in New York a different person than the one who dragged from the sea. He disappears off the ship ahead of his father, gone before Desmond can step foot in America. Harry has a promise to keep. A life to live. And he is not going to spend it living the way anyone else chooses anymore. He is going to live like Louis did. He is going to live like he is alive. 

He owes Louis that. 

Harry is jostled and pushed as people surge from the boat, desperate to be far from the sea, and he does not blame them. He lets it happen. He makes himself small, scarce, head down as far as he can make it go. He stays small until he can no longer hear the crowd, the April morning far colder than it should be. Isn’t it spring? Is there no such thing here in the world without Louis? 

Harry makes himself stop thinking the name. Louis is gone and Harry let him go; Harry left him all alone. There is nothing to think about. Harry had one choice and he chose wrong. He will not let it happen again. He dashes away from the sea, from the great ship that scooped the survivors from the sea, and no one will ever know he was among them. Harry Styles will be listed amongst the dead and his father will move on. His father will be fine. Harry is not sorry anymore.

He does not want to be so sorry ever again. 

The sky is a beautiful blue, the prettiest blue Harry has seen since a pair of beautiful blue eyes. Harry gets the feeling Louis has forgiven him already for all the wrong he has done. 

Louis is good like that.

With his hands stuffed deep in the pockets of the coat he will never wear again Harry walks away from everything he knows. His back to the ship, he walks until he can no longer smell the salt of the Atlantic and taste it on his tongue. Eventually the heat returns to his limbs, sweat in the base of his spine, and he should have known even the cold would end. Guilt could eat him alive if he let it; how is it he deserves to be alive at all?

There was a beautiful boy on the sea and no one will ever know. 

As fast as he can, warm now enough to shout, to scream, Harry chases after a stranger with a leather bound journal clutched to her chest. He asks for paper and a pen and she presses them into his hands, a page ripped from her book and a pen from inside her coat. Harry has a promise to keep and a boy with a face like the sun to keep alive. 

Louis’s drawing lies at the bottom of the sea and the loss hits Harry like a train, tears clogging up the space behind his eyes. Harry sits down hard outside a vacant bakery, the morning too young for the place to be open just yet, and he wipes with his thumb at the tears that splash on his paper. He has a boy to remember. A boy to commit to memory. Harry sniffles, shivers, and begins to write. Someday, maybe, when Louis’ dream comes true and Harry lives to see one hundred, he will open up this old slip of paper and remember the boy he knew. The boy he loved with all his heart, the most beautiful boy who ever lived. The boy who saved Harry’s life and loved him until he could no longer love him. Harry writes until his hand aches, tears dripping from the tip of his nose, and a woman stops by to ask him what he has to be sad about on such a lovely morning. 

“I loved someone,” Harry tells her, surprised he can speak at all. “And I lost him.” The woman asks nothing more. She brings him a mug of tea and something to eat and he is too tired to thank her; all he does is carefully fold his letter to the future and slips it into his pocket.

He has a boy to remember and a life to reach out and take. 

He owes Louis that much. He owes Louis that. 

 

Time goes on in waves like it tends to do and Harry moves with it. He lets it take him; he takes a job as a baker in New York and he makes it his home. He saves his money and he builds a little life. By summer he can hardly remember how it feels to feel cold. The only thing that helps him recall is stepping barefoot into the sea, New York City a ghost at his back. With water lapping at his ankles he can remember well. He can tip his head back and close his eyes because the blue color of the sky is still too much for him. 

Much of everything is still too much for him.

He watches from afar as the world mourns the loss of thousands of lives. He pretends it does not mean much to him; he has a new name taken from a boy he loved and he is not one to dwell on things he has no part in. Harry skims the list printed of the dead in the morning paper until he finds his own name. He clips it out with kitchen shears and tucks it into his pocket along with a letter to an older Harry, one brave enough to bring it all back to him. 

In the end Harry moves on. He moves far from the sea because it hurts too much to look at it straight on. He moves to places where it is always cloudy, where he can no longer see the blue, blue sky. When people ask about his aloneness he has a simple answer. He is a widower and he gets sympathetic smiles this way; this way is so much easier than explaining. 

Harry moves on only because he has to and he waits for long months before doing something else he must. He searches until he finds them and when he does he pens a letter. Harry writes to Louis’ family. It is the longest letter he has written since he step foot off the Carpathia. He could write for a year on the beauty of Louis’ skin but instead he makes it as short as he can bear. 

_“He saved me,”_ Harry’s letter ends, hands shaking almost to make it illegible. _“I’m sorry I am not brave enough to tell you face to face. But he saved me and I am sorry I have been too afraid to write until now. I’m sorry to hell and back if you have been worrying for so long about where he has gone. At least now you can have the truth. He died brave. He died beautiful. And I loved him. Beyond all else…thank you for leading him to me.”_

Harry does not sign his name but he seals the letter up, hands trembling as he gives it away. 

At the very least Harry owes the Tomlinsons the closure his own father will never get. 

Months turn into a year and Harry cuts his hair in the middle of the night, a desperate attempt to stop the flow of tears and change himself as much as he can. His downstairs neighbor hears him crying and she comes to save him, to wrap her arms around him and not ask anything of him. She does not even ask what’s the matter. Harry is so grateful he can’t speak.

The year turns into a few and Harry is still alone. He is still desperately alone but he is still young; he still has time. He is going to be all right. Less and less mornings are spent sweating, in recovery from nightmares of dead eyes on the sea. 

He is going to be all right because he owes Louis a life well lived. He owes Louis at least as much. 

One morning, Harry closer to thirty than twenty, he wakes up to the brightest blue sky he has seen in years. The sun hangs snug in the sky, unapologetic in its brightness. A year ago Harry would have cried. He would have wept. But this morning he settles into the windowsill of his bedroom and watches the sunrise instead. 

He owes himself a little serenity. 

“Good morning, Lou,” Harry squeaks, voice small against the morning. “It’s so good to see you.”

And in the morning light he smiles. He does.

He owes Louis that much. 

The letter to a better Harry rustles in his pocket but it’s not time yet. Harry remembers. Harry remembers him still.

He owes Louis that much.


	10. Epilogue: I'll See You in Your Dreams Again

Harry gets the life he has always wanted. He is free and he is loved; he grows old surrounded by family who love him more than the world. He never marries but he adopts children, four of them, and they give him all the love he could ever need. Time goes on, moving and moving, and ten years turn to twenty. Twenty to fifty and before Harry knows it his children are gone with children of their own. To anyone on the outside Harry might look lonely where he lives all alone. But he is loved and wanted and cared for and more than that he is happy. He is at peace. 

Even so there are quiet, desperate, keening moments of loneliness, of something close to true despair, and in those moments Harry lets them take him. He lets his shoulders shake and he lets his eyes close; he lets his eyes stream until they run dry and he washes his face and he goes to bed. Children and grandchildren slide in and out of his little home in New York, sometimes staying as long as he lets them. They would stay forever, they say, holding him too tight until he grimaces and reminds them how terribly, wildly old he feels these days. 

They understand.

They know bits and pieces of him, his children do, and they all bear the name he took as he stepped off the Carpathia. His children share Louis’ last name. Harry saw first his name in the obituaries and then, years later, his father’s. He even gave himself a long while to mourn, to contemplate visiting his father’s grave. But he never did. That was a different version of him, the version who had a father called Desmond Styles. Harry has not thought the name Harry Styles in more years than he can count. That boy died along with all the others on the Titanic. 

As Harry gets older, gradually and then all at once the stigma of a boy loving another boy begins to fade. In his lonely moments, when he lets himself cry himself dry, Harry wishes desperately he and Louis could have been born into a different time. They deserved it. As Harry gets older his children ask of him why he never marries, why he says he never will, why they have no mother. And Harry does the wrong thing as he never lost the knack to do and he lies. He tells them they have no mother because he lost his own and he did not want to inflict such a pain on his children. They accept the answer easily enough, envious now and then of the two parents their friends have, but as time goes on they leave the question alone. 

So his children know parts of him. But they do not know his name. 

When Harry is old, so old he wears glasses and still can hardly see, he hears the news. A crew of half a dozen men and nothing more are going down to the bottom of the sea. They are going to the wreckage of the unsinkable ship that sank, down to the Ship of Dreams. Harry watches them on the television, shining flashlight beams over the metal of the ship for the first time in eighty-four years. He digs his fingers into the arms of his rocking chair and his visiting granddaughters flank him, asking him why he wears such a long face. He does not know what to tell them. 

There is a story he has been yearning to tell his whole life, since he was seventeen and contemplating death while it surrounded him. But something holds him back. He watches on TV as robotic arms search the ship, all traces of life covered in a fine layer of dirt and sand and dust. Harry is all right until the cameras sweep across the front of the ship. After that he is lost. He weeps, head in his hands, and his granddaughters are frantic, down on their knees to speak to him face to face. He never thought he would see it again, that is all; he never thought he would see the place where Louis held him as they kissed for the first time. 

“Hey, what’s wrong?” his granddaughters ask, and today is a good day as any to finally tell the truth. 

“There’s a box in my room,” Harry says as his granddaughters fuss. “A cardboard box tied up with twine. Can I have it?” Moments later the box is in his hands, the Titanic a ghost on the television screen before Harry. He unties the knot he has not touched in half a century, the knot he tied to keep Louis safe where tears could not touch him. Harry unfolds an old piece of paper, a delicate piece of paper torn from a leather journal. 

“Why are you crying?” his granddaughters ask, their heads close together as they peer up at him from the floor of his living room. And he wants to tell them the truth. 

“I was there,” Harry says. 

“Where?”

“On the Ship of Dreams,” Harry breathes, and two sets of beautiful eyes go wide. Harry wishes they were all here, all his family to hear the tale, but his two beautiful granddaughters will tell the rest. He is sure of it. As sure as he is of this moment when they wait with bated breath. 

“Grandpa, you have to be kidding me, that was a hundred years ago…”

“Eighty-four,” Harry corrects. He fingers the yellowed notebook paper, caressing the old marks old tears left on the page. He has not thought about the paper as long as he has not thought about his name; it makes his heart hurt just to touch it and remember. “I was seventeen. And I was there.”

“No way.”

“Yes,” Harry says, almost laughing despite himself. He has not given himself to sadness in a long, long time and he feels it creeping in now, his eyes stinging from the brief tears he already let himself cry. “Do you want to hear the story or not?”

Two girls nod feverishly with gleaming eyes. And Harry tells them. He tells them the truth from the best perspective he can, careful not to leave anything out. He tells them of his father and how he let him think Harry was dead; they shiver at the thought but they let him be. He tells them about how the dining hall looked, beautiful and pristine and too perfect, and he tells them of Niall. He tells them of the boy who met him first, the boy who had a sweet Irish tilt to his voice and a kinder face than Harry has seen since. He tells them next of Liam, of the protective nature of the boy he wanted to have more time. 

He saves the best for last. 

They get the truth for the first time in eighty-four years; they get the tale of Louis. Harry fusses with his love letter for so long he worries he will ruin the paper once and for all, and only then does he open it up to read. 

“What’s that?” his granddaughters ask together. Already the older of the two has tears in her eyes, her hands shaky on her knees. The younger is still confused by the concept of falling in love and Harry loves her for it. He himself has not known the feeling in so long it gets hard to remember. 

“It’s a letter from the past,” Harry says. “From a different version of me.”

“Who is it to?”

“To me,” Harry says after a moment. “To him. To Louis. I wrote it to help me remember when I started to forget.” 

“You never forget your first love, Grandpa,” his older granddaughter says, voice small. And Harry feels like weeping all over again. “Don’t worry.”

“You’re right,” he tells her. She is. Many nights Harry awakes with a start, scared out of his mind he cannot remember Louis’ face. It always comes back to him in the end. He wakes up sweating, terrified the sound of Louis’ voice is gone. But Harry remembers. How could he forget? 

“Are you going to read to us?” his younger granddaughter asks. And Harry nods. He is. For the first time in a long time he is deeply aware of the empty space at his side, the space Louis should share. But he says nothing about the space now. It never left him before. It will be there still when his story is done. 

And Harry begins to read. His voice shakes at first but it gets better; it gets stronger. He knows the words, after all, despite the years between this moment and the last time he tucked the letter away. He knows the start by heart, just like he knows the color of Louis’ eyes. 

“You love him,” the letter begins. Harry’s handwriting is almost illegible, almost too hard to read, but Harry knows the words. He knows them all. “You love him, you love him, you love him so much it hurts. You loved him. He was beautiful and you loved him so, so desperately.” Harry clears his throat but his eyes are dry. They are. “Don’t forget him. I won’t let you. This letter is to tell you, me, whoever, not to forget him. Forgetting is not an option. You loved him, you love him, so desperately it hurts, and he gave you the world. He gave me the world.”

Harry pauses and the images of the Titanic on TV play on, his granddaughters looking up at him. 

“What do you say I read the rest to you tomorrow?” Harry asks. (This is harder than he expected, that’s all.) “I’m old and need to get to bed.” He sees his reluctant grandchildren out the door, kissing the tops of their heads like he has done for years. As he locks the door behind them and turns off the TV he lets himself think of how Louis would look if he got to kiss them, too. Louis would be so happy inside of this life. And Harry could not give it to him. 

Letting despair take over is an easy thing and Harry quakes by the time he carries his letter to bed, intent on finishing it on his own. He misses Louis, that is all, and he needs the memories to carry him to sleep. 

“He was perfect,” the letter reads in Harry’s imperfect scrawl. “He was the sun. His eyes were so blue. That’s the most important part. Don’t forget the way his eyes look just like the sky. The second most important thing is being called his baby. You are his baby, his love, his honey. Don’t forget that, either. He thought you were all those things and more. Be those for the rest of your life. You owe it to him.”

Harry remembers being more coherent as he wrote, more together, but he remembers that part wrong. The letter is fragmented, desperate, sad, and Harry feels split in two as he reads. 

(When did he stop being this sad, empty boy? Has he ever? Will he?)

“You owe him the world,” the letter says. Harry sniffles, eyes wet, surprising himself. “And more,” it reads. “I hope you’re happy, the old man who reads this, because I am almost happy now. I should not be so nearly happy but I am. The longer I think about it the more I am sure; Louis waits for me. How can I be anything but elated when I am so sure?” Harry pinches the bridge of his nose and tries not to cry out; he remembers how he cried as he wrote this. He remembers how painful it was to sit under the perfect sky and try to keep from crying. But he was happy. Wasn’t he? 

Just because he was sure. 

Today he is surer than he was at seventeen. Here in his bed Harry can feel the pull that never went away, the pull of something better than this. The pull of the love he never let go. He promised, after all. And it’s a promise he will keep. 

Harry closes his eyes with the letter propped on his nightstand and Harry lets his old age and his sweet dreams take him away. When he awakens, the world bright around him, he is not alone. There are people all around him, people with toothy grins on their faces as they stand dressed in their evening best. Music swells all around him, violins coming from somewhere behind Harry, and he pays it no mind. Because there is only one person he wants to see. 

After all this time Harry has not let the years take Louis’ face from his mind. Harry knows Louis the moment he sees him, Louis’ back to him as he stands at the top of the stairs. If this is heaven Harry is not surprised. He stands on the Titanic, thousands of people beaming at him, and he begins to climb the stairs. 

After all this time Louis still waits for him.

Harry reaches Louis, tentative, slow, reaching out with one hand (so far from the hands Harry has seen as an old man; these are the hands of a boy not yet eighteen). And Louis turns around to smile at him. 

“There you are,” Louis says, eyes crinkling up at the corners. “There you are, love. I’ve been waiting for you.” And he scoops Harry into his arms, just as strong and warm and sure as Harry remembers. Just as beautiful, just as safe and lovely and good, and Harry hugs him back. 

The Titanic floats across an endless sea in a place without time and Harry lets it take him. 

He would not rather be anywhere else. Such a beautiful place could only exist in dreams, in heaven, at the end of all things. And as Harry holds his boy, his heart at arms’ length, Louis perfect as always, Harry’s heart begins to sing. 

“Welcome home,” Louis says, and that is all. 

That is all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for taking this journey with me. Truthfully I'm more than a little broken-hearted to be leaving this version of Louis and Harry behind. But I will be back soon to meet with them again. Until then, you can reach me at ourl0veisgod on tumblr. Thank you, thank you.


End file.
